


Dust In The Wind

by Raven_Novak



Series: Brave New World [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, M/M, New Hunter Network, Post-Season/Series 10, Post-Season/Series 10 Finale, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4175031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Novak/pseuds/Raven_Novak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happened all at once: the Darkness spread across the sky like a tidal wave, blocking the sun and the moon and anything else which might have cast it away. It remained there with the ebb of day and night, lingering over them, suffocating. And it quickly became apparent to the humans crawling across the planet below that it wouldn’t be going away.</p><p>With the Mark gone and a force older than God released, Team Free Will is uprooted once more as they face a threat which will drastically alter the world they have spent so long trying to save. Their last remaining hope lies with the union of the archangels, some of whom they had thought to be dead, and others locked away deep inside the Cage. As the Winchesters and Castiel gather their allies, there is one thing that is certain: this is not an enemy they can kill. All they can do is hope to contain it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello Darkness My Old Friend

Everything is black when Dean opens his eyes. He’s used to this; waking up to different motel rooms and not knowing where he is. At this point it hardly even jostles him. It’s all he’s ever had. But this time is different, he quickly discerns. This isn’t a motel room. In fact, it isn’t even a room. It takes him a second or two to recognize the interior of the Impala with the infuriating lack of light. He rubs the back of his head, which is throbbing stubbornly, as he strains to move in the seat. It can’t be nighttime already. Last he remembers…  


_Shit._  


“Sammy?” The panic spreads quickly, adrenaline pumping life into his sore and aching muscles. He looks beside him to the passenger seat, the hulk of his little brother nothing more than a grainy silhouette in what is already shadow. _Please, please be okay…_ Dean holds out a shaking hand, all concern for himself immediately dissolved as he places it gently on Sam’s shoulder. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when Sam stirs beneath his grip, rolling over to face Dean and blinking awake. “Dean?” he rasps, and Dean withdraws his hand.  


“Yeah, Sammy, I’m right here.”  


Sam seems to recall the past 24 hours much more quickly than Dean does, because suddenly his eyes go wide and he is completely awake. “The Darkness,” he says, and Dean nods.  


“No shit.”  


“So that wasn’t all a dream.”  


Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Since when have we ever been that lucky?” Sam purses his lips before looking away, inspecting the blackness coating the windows.  


“So, um, do we get out now?”  


Sighing, Dean reaches for the handle of the car door. “Don’t really see another option here.” And with that he pushes open the door and steps outside.  


It is in fact nighttime, although Dean isn’t certain if hours really have passed or if this is some aftereffect of unleashing a force as old as the friggin’ universe. He checks his watch: 11:32 AM. Yep. Definitely an apocalyptic side effect.  


Sam follows suit, stepping out of the car to inspect the battered wasteland left behind by the Darkness. The restaurant has been ripped to shreds, old wooden boards and plywood peeled away in layers and leaving only the skeleton of the building moderately intact. The metal sign has toppled over, embedding into the dirt mere meters away from the Impala. But the damage does not end there; as far as either of them can see in the artificial night the landscape has been stripped bare, trees uprooted and fields ripped apart.  


Sam swallows. “What now?” he asks, and Dean fights the urge to throw back an accusatory remark. No, blame will have to wait until later… “We find Cas,” he croaks out. Yes, that seems like a good place to start.  


Another minute passes as the two brothers gaze out into the arid land before them. And then without another word they climb into the car and pull out onto what remains of the road, plunging into the blackness with nothing but the Impala’s headlights to guide them.

* * *

 

The radio’s busted, and Dean sure as hell isn’t listening to any of his tapes after what’s just happened. Right now he doesn’t think his mind could handle any extra stimulation as his brain replays the demise of Death at the end of his own scythe, the painful removal of the Mark, and the alien Darkness leaking in from beyond a barrier which should never have been breached. Sam has the good sense not to say anything as they drive in uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t try to justify what has happened, or worse yet, _apologize_. They’ll handle it later. Or even better, maybe they can just forget about it. That would be good. Often that’s Dean’s preferred approach to life’s emotional and ethical conflicts, although rarely does it work.  


As far as he can tell the artificial night stretches far beyond the domain of the land surrounding the derelict restaurant. Even as he crosses state borders it plagues them, and Dean begins to wonder just how far it stretches. If it weren’t for the damned radio maybe he could get an idea. His phone’s broken too, and Sam can’t seem to get a connection. Figures.  


The hours whittle away in tense silence, and as evening quickly approaches the sky remains unchanged. There’s something else about it too, Dean notices; an electric feeling in the air, as if it’s ionized. It puts him off, as does everything else about this situation.  


Finally they find themselves on the road to the abandoned warehouse Sam had adopted for his insouciant “Save Dean Winchester” endeavors. Everything’s quiet here, he thinks as they pull off of the road and into the dirt. Too quiet for someplace as isolated as this, even; no birds, no breeze, nothing. The hairs on the back of Dean’s arms and neck stand on end, and as he chances a glance towards Sam stepping out of the car he can see a similar look of consternation on his face. They approach the ramshackle building with caution, Dean drawing his best hunting knife from inside his boot, and Sam a handgun from the waistband of his pants. They step around the dilapidated front entrance and enter silently from the back.  


Dean tries to ignore the blood rushing in his ears, the way that everything about this place feels desperately wrong. And that’s when he sees him: Cas collapsed on the grimy floor in a pool of what appears to be his own blood. Dean’s seen him worse, _left_ him worse he thinks with a deep pang of guilt as he reflects back to the altercation at the Bunker. But this is different. Usually the angel would give it a few minutes and be back on his feet, the lacerations and wounds but a distant memory as they healed in the heat of his grace. It looks like he’s been like this for longer than a few minutes though. He’s out cold, and there is dark crimson blood all over his face, leaking from his mouth, his nose, and Christ, even his _eyes_.  


“Cas!” Dean lunges forward, dropping to the ground at his friend’s side. Do angels have a pulse? He isn’t sure, but he gently cups his fingers to the man’s neck and can feel the faint fluttering of a heartbeat beneath. _He’s alive…_  


Cas’ eyes shoot open, and Dean is momentarily repulsed by the red of burst blood vessels rimming those blue irises. “Cas!” he exclaims again, withdrawing his hand which had still been resting gently on his neck. The angel’s eyes lock with his, and something sinks in the pit of Dean’s stomach at the lack of recognition in them.  


Sam must see it too, because all of the sudden he’s shouting, the gun still raised in his hands. “Dean, get back! It’s not Cas!”  


Dean stumbles backwards just in time to dodge Castiel’s blow, the angel thrusting towards him with all of his weight. In a matter of seconds Dean is on his feet, cursing himself for having left the angel blade in the trunk of the Impala. Cas scrambles to his feet, those dead and bloodshot eyes locked onto Dean with the veracity of an attack dog. And that’s when Dean pieces it together: Rowena.  


_“Cas,”_ he intones, raising his open palms slowly to the air and nestling the knife between his thumb and the flesh of his hand. “This isn’t you doing this. You’ve got to fight this, okay?” Castiel tilts his head a bit, and Dean feels a surge of hope at the familiar gesture. And then it’s gone, as quickly as it arrived, when Cas takes a shuddering step forwards. His breathing is heavy and erratic, and blood is still dripping from his mouth as his angel blade slips neatly into his hand. Dean takes a step backwards, his hands still in the air, and Sam tracks the angel with his gun, his finger resting just above the trigger. The bullets won’t do much, if anything, but they might slow him down…  


Castiel comes to shaky halt only a couple of meters away from Dean, at the edge of the blood pool. He raises the blade, his hands doddering, and Sam’s finger inches closer to the trigger…  


“…Dean…” The blade comes down, although it does not collide with Dean’s skin, but instead Castiel’s. The angel’s breath hitches, but he continues to dig into the flesh of his leg, even as he falls to the ground. The blade shakes in his hands, but he carves the sigils anyway, thin white light leaking from the wounds and intermixing with the blood. And when the work is done the blade falls from his fingertips, clattering to the floor with a jarring sound which seems to fill the whole room. The angel collapses onto his back, his eyes drifting shut only to open a few seconds later. The red is slowly dissipating from his irises, the wounds sealing up, but there is still a pained expression to him. _“Rowena,”_ gasps the angel before going limp. This time he does not open his eyes again, but there is a steady rise and fall to his chest.  


Dean turns to Sam, exchanging an expression of bewilderment. Together they sheath their weapons to pull their unconscious friend into the car.

 

* * *

 

The Bunker is in ruins when they arrive back in Lebanon. The door has been ripped clear off of its hinges, thrown across the side of the road and nestled somewhere between the trees. The inside isn’t any better, or at least what remains; whatever was here not only managed to penetrate the sigils, but looted the place and burned what was left. In many rooms there is nothing left but a thick coat of ash clinging to the surfaces and polluting the air. Neither Winchester speaks as they inspect the blackened hallways, looking for what little they can salvage from the wreckage. Sam heads for the stores, pulling what relics and magical ingredients he can from shelves, and Dean checks the archives. Most of the books are nothing more than burnt pages drifting about in the air, but a few leatherback volumes on Enochian lore and spell-casting have weathered the storm. Dean takes them up carefully in his arms, finding a miraculously spared box to pile them into. He starts back down the hallway alone, making but one quick detour.  


He stands at the edge of the doorway gazing inwards like a specter. The mattress is charred and the walls are sooty. The few possessions he had amalgamated and shaped are nothing more than dust now, scattered about the floor in the careless tide of whatever intruder had ruined them. Dean takes in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. This is the closest thing he’s had to a home since he was four years old, cowering in the front yard and clutching his brother tight as he watched flames engulf his life. Once again fire and the evils propagating it have robbed him of this tiny space. But not his identity. He learned to carry that separate from material long ago.  


Dean opens his eyes and starts to walk away as something catches his interest. Doubling back he hesitantly crosses the threshold, bending over a nearby pile of soot to withdraw something from the debris. He holds the cassette tape in front of him: _Led Zeppelin IV_. Pocketing it he leaves behind the remnants of his existence once more.

 

| 

 

When Castiel awakens he has no idea where he is. He recalls the abandoned warehouse, Rowena completing the spell and a look of alarm on Crowley’s face. Everything from then on is a blank slate. Castiel frowns, sitting up despite the protests of his still-healing body. He looks down at his hands but can see no telltale scars. When his eyes wander to his legs, however, things begin to come back to him. Staring at the ragged clothing he takes in the imprecisely cut sigils carved into his skin. With a flick of the hand the skin is healed over and the fabric of his clothing repaired. The sigils remain just beneath the surface.  


He’s in a motel room now, he’s fairly certain. The warehouse is far away. Rowena is long gone, and Crowley…  


_Crowley_.  


“Rise and shine Sleeping Beauty,” says a familiar voice. Castiel’s frown deepens as he meets the oldest Winchester’s green eyes. He is about to state that he does not understand the reference, but then he realizes that he does thanks to Metatron’s useless pop culture lesson.  


“I am not a princess, Dean,” Castiel settles on plaintively, and Dean rolls his eyes but otherwise does not comment. “How you feeling?” he says instead.  


Castiel tilts his head to the side, considering the question. “Well enough.”  


Dean hesitates, leaning back in the chair beside the bed. “Good. That’s good.”  


Castiel sits up all of the way, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and resting them on the ground. His shoes are scuffed and dull. “Where’s Sam?” he asks somewhat arbitrarily. The question is valid enough, though; the younger Winchester is generally hard to miss at his immodest height, and his absence in the room is clear.  
Deans shifts again the chair, clearly uncomfortable. “Went out to get some food. Probably not a good idea, considering he’ll pick up some organic shit or something. But he’ll be back soon.” Castiel nods slightly in confirmation, but otherwise says nothing. Until…  


“The Mark?” he asks suddenly, looking towards the sleeve covering Dean’s forearm. Dean says nothing, simply rolling up the fabric to reveal undisturbed pale flesh. Castiel lets out a bated breath. At least out of everything in this colossal disaster they have that…  


“Good,” he whispers tiredly, lowering his head.  


“Look, Cas,” says Dean finally, fidgeting in the chair once more. His eyes are dark, his expression cloudy at best. Castiel turns towards him fractionally, waiting with angelic patience for the man to continue. Realizing that he will receive no help from Cas, Dean fumbles for words. “What happened back at the Bunker… I’m… I didn’t…” He lets out an exasperated breath, lowering his gaze to the floor. Castiel’s heart beats a little faster, but he does not let his face reflect his thoughts. The physical injuries have long since healed, his grace making short work of them. But the emotional scars are still there, and he suspects that they always will be. Silly things these human emotions are. And at this point in his eons-long existence, Castiel suspects that he is closer to human than anything.  


“I’m sorry,” whispers Dean quietly, and the words slip by so quietly that Castiel almost wonders if he had imagined them. Almost. “I’m sorry,” repeats Dean, raising his vivid green eyes. “I know it’s no kind of excuse, but I wasn’t me. I would never say those things to you… I would never _mean_ them. What I did, it’s… it’s unforgivable. I’m not asking you to forgive me.”  


Something catches in Castiel’s throat, and he takes a moment to weigh just what he wants to say. “You don’t need to ask, Dean,” he murmurs, holding his friend’s gaze. Those green eyes are so pained, so stricken… “I forgive you. I always will.” And softly, more to himself than to Dean, he whispers, “I am far from lack of fault myself.”  


Dean doesn’t seem to know what to say to that; seldom does he. He would probably label this as one of those borderline “chick flick moments”. A moment later he chuckles humorlessly, dismissing the gravity of the statement. “Well, we’re both pretty screwed up,” he laughs. “I guess it’s one of the criteria of being a Winchester.” Dean does not acknowledge the weight of this last statement either. They both wait in silence for Sam to return, the minutes passing slowly.

 

* * *

 

Sam comes back with burgers for Dean and Castiel and chicken salad in a plastic container for himself half an a hour later. “Didn’t know if he’d be hungry,” Sam offers by way of explanation, motioning towards Castiel as Dean eyes the two burgers. Castiel isn’t, but he politely takes the burger anyway, nibbling at it a bit every now and then. It _does_ taste good, but every now and then he is still disturbed by memories of his lack of control under Famine’s influence. He surrenders the remainder of his burger to Dean after a few bites.  


“They’re calling it a series of ‘freak astronomical events,’” Sam states with air quotes, taking his seat.  


“Astronomical event my ass,” says Dean through a mouthful of burger. Sam frowns.  


“So, Cas,” begins Sam as he picks at his salad, taking the responsibility of being the first to broach the subject. “Back at the warehouse… what happened?”  


Castiel pulls his lips into a tight line, carefully inspecting the faux woodgrain of the cheap motel table in the dim light. “Rowena completed the incantation and took the Codex and the Book. Before she left she put me under her attack dog spell and instructed me to kill Crowley.”  


Both Dean and Sam stop chewing, and Castiel looks up momentarily. “Did you kill him?” asks Dean through a mouthful of Cas’ burger. It is difficult to read beyond the testy neutrality of his tone, but it’s almost as if he’s… concerned.  


Castiel shakes his head. “No. He attempted to bind me to the space using my own blood as he got away. The more I struggled the more I bled out; not enough to kill me, but with Rowena’s magic binding me too I couldn’t heal.” He pauses, thinking about his next statement for a long while. “He could have killed me, but he didn’t…” He slips his hands from where they are resting flat against the table to fold gingerly into his lap. “I don’t know where either of them went. I apologize. What… what about you?”  


He looks up in time to witness the brothers exchange a guarded look that can only mean they’re about to deliver news of the apocalyptic variety. Dean sets down his burger, and Sam concentrates harder on the chunks of chicken dispersed throughout his salad. It takes a few times of opening and closing his mouth before Dean can seem to summon the words he is looking for. “The Mark is gone, something older than the angels and the Leviathan called the Darkness has been released… and I may have killed Death with his own scythe.”  


Castiel’s eyes go wide, and his head tilt reaches its maximum pivot. “You did what ?” he chokes, his mind clouding with a toxic mixture of anger and dread. It feels as if the floor has just dropped out from beneath his feet, and there is a cavity forming in stomach. He recognizes the sensation from when he was human. It was always unpleasant, and never preluded anything good.  


“I ganked Death.”  


Taking a deep breath Castiel attempts to swallow his rage. Bickering will not solve anything… “Dean, do you have any idea what this _means_?”  


Dean sighs wearily, and the mannerism is completely devoid of sarcasm. “Give it to me straight, Cas. What does it mean?” Sam looks between the two of them, the tongs of his fork still poised in the air above his salad. Castiel turns his head to face the floor, drawing the courage to speak.  


“Death is one of the oldest forces in the universe, nearly as old as God. Despite his chosen appearance, Death is not a _person_. He cannot be ‘ganked’. What you _did_ was destroy his vessel.”  


Dean raises his eyebrows, leaning in closer to the table. The paper wrapper of the burger crinkles as the fabric of his jacket brushes against it. “Okay. If it was just his vessel, that’s a good thing isn’t it? Like shooting a spirit with salt or something, he’ll go away for a while then come back.”  


Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose, a habit he had developed before he restored his grace. “Yes, he will come back. But he needs a new vessel to contain him. Death has taken up several vessels in his time. The periods during which he was formless are each marked by plague or mass extinction. Some of the most recent include bubonic during the Middle Ages and influenza in the early 1900’s.”  


Leaning back at the chair, Dean looks up to the ceiling. “Well that’s just friggin’ fantastic.”  


“So what needs to happen for Death to assume a vessel?” asks Sam, setting down his plastic fork on the table. Ever the more practical of the two Winchesters…  


“I’m not entirely certain,” replies Castiel thoughtfully. “Death was an angel once, long ago: Azrael. He’ll require a compatible human vessel.”  


“And the runner ups?”  


Castiel pauses. “Well, you two would certainly suffice. But I doubt he’d want to touch you.”  


Dean laughs bitterly, cracking open a can of beer and taking a swig. “Who would say ‘yes’ to letting Death use them as a meat suit?” Castiel has the decency not to point out that Sam had once consented to Lucifer himself. “Okay, so Death needs to take a vessel, and sometime before the next pandemic. In the meantime there’s the Darkness.”  


Sam jumps into the conversation, discarding the plastic container on the table absently. “So far it’s blotted out the sky. Not a good thing, and it’s only too long until the environment starts suffering the effects. But that’s all we know of; no freak storms, no earthquakes, not even a spike in demonic activity as far as I can tell. In fact, it looks like the radar is clearer than ever.”  


“That isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Castiel grumbles, rubbing his thumbs in tiny concentric circles against the palms of his hands. “The quiet before the storm.”  


“So how do we fight the dark?” asks Dean. “It’s not like we can turn on the lights and be done with it.”  


Sam’s face scrunches up, his vision drifting to the corner of the room as a thought occurs to him. “Death said that God created the archangels to push back the Darkness.”  


“Yeah,” Dean crosses his arms over the tabletop, “well it’s not really like we have access to any archangels right now. Raphael and Gabriel are dead, and Lucifer and Michael are both still in the Cage.”  


Cas tilts his head, and Dean and Sam look to him expectantly. “Gabriel might not be dead,” he explains. “I saw him once when Metatron captured me. It was a trick, but before the illusion dissolved I asked Gabriel if he was really gone. He didn’t answer.” He pauses. “It _felt_ like him. I could feel his grace…”  


“Okay,” interrupts Dean. “So we’ve got one possible archangel. That’s not good enough.”  


Sam stares steadily at the wall, blinking slowly every now and then. “Actually, we’ve got three.”  


Dean gapes. “Sammy, you can’t be -”  


“Four,” supplies Castiel. “Death himself had already assumed his role as a Horseman mere seconds after his creation, and therefore could not have been one of the four archangels to originally fight the Darkness. But in killing him you reverted him to his archangel state. That makes four.”  


The room is silent for a moment, the only sounds being the whir of the ventilation and the wail of sirens beyond the windows. “Okay,” speaks Dean slowly, looking between Sam and Castiel. “So that’s our plan. Unite the archangels. Where do we even begin?”  


Castiel quirks a strange and saturnine smile. “I think I have an idea.”

|

 

She stands alone in the open field, looking upwards as the blackness spreads across the sky, like ink spilling over a blank page. She should be rejoicing at the sight, a symbol of the power she has summoned into this world. But she doesn’t. Instead she is filled with fear.  


It’s only been twenty minutes since she left the abandoned warehouse, but already she is miles away (thank you magic). She spares only a moment’s thought to her bastard son; the angel will have likely finished him off by now. Good riddance. It’s not like she loved him. Not like Oskar…  


Now this sends a wave of guilt crashing down on her. Poor, dear Oskar, the sweet boy…  


No. She can’t think about him. Love is a liability. She clutches the Book and the Codex close to her breast. She will never have to deal with that again, now that she has what she wants…  


_Wants_.  


The sky is completely covered now, and Rowena feels so small standing beneath the endless expanse of darkness. She feels… afraid.  


The blackness descends suddenly, one black plume reaching out towards her. She does not move away from it, despite her every instinct, but instead stands to face it. After all, she is the one who summoned it here. She is powerful.  


The Darkness does not speak to her with words, but she can feel it fishing around inside of her head, pulling out memories to reflect what it is trying to say.  


_You freed us,_ it whispers.  


_Yes,_ she thinks, and she feels chilled to the core as it pushes itself further inside of her head, her heart, her soul. _Yes, I was the one who freed you_.  


_Then you will serve us._  


Rowena hesitates. It is not a question, but more or less a statement. _Yes, I will serve you._  


_You will give us your body._  


This strikes undisguised terror into Rowena, plummeting into her pounding heart like a spear. _What? No, you cannot have my body. I will serve you, I will be loyal, but you cannot take me -_  


Rowena’s worst memories resurface in her mind, and she can feel herself crumbling to her knees beneath the weight of them. The Darkness cackles and howls inside of her head as it forces its way into her, mixing with her very essence…  


And then it stops. She sits up in the grass, her long red hair falling in messy heaps about her face as she climbs to her feet. Her lips curl into a cruel smile, and when she speaks, her mouth twisting around the words, it is no longer Rowena.  


_“Oh yes we can.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something I've been wanting to do, so I decided I'd post my interpretation of the upcoming Season 11 here. I'm treating this as if Season 11 is endgame, and I'll be putting together a playlist to accompany this fic, so I'll post the link when it's up. Thanks for reading! 
> 
>    
> Song: ["Sound of Silence"](https://youtu.be/4zLfCnGVeL4)


	2. Shadows Taller Than Our Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["Stairway to Heaven"](https://youtu.be/8pPvNqOb6RA)
> 
> [I compiled a playlist to accompany this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

“Claire!” Claire Novak barely has time to dodge the shifter lunging for her. The thing is between shapes, rubbery skin peeling away from the figure of some blonde and into something seemingly androgynous. Claire sidesteps it with ease, wielding the Grigori sword before her and taking aim…  


Before she can swing, the thing moves, running back towards where Jody and Annie are scrambling up from the ground onto which they had just been flung, silver knives in hand. They aren’t ready, they’re not moving fast enough…  


Without a second thought Claire bolts towards the shifter, drawing back the sword and bringing it down with all of the force she can muster against its neck. The thing lets out a terrible squeal, and then it’s silent, its head flopping to the ground separately from the body. For a few seconds she just stares at it, the peeling skin and slime and vaguely human form. And then she looks to Jody and Annie on the ground, something between relief and shock etching into their features. Claire sheathes the sword, panting hard as she pushes back her long blonde hair. Sweat coats her fingertips.  


And that’s when it happens. There is a distant sound like canon fire, and at first she thinks nothing of it, maybe because she’s been desensitized from movies or shit like that. But what follows is something she can’t ignore. She notices first a rapidly spreading shadow on the asphalt, and she thinks to herself rather unremarkably, that’s odd. And then she sees the dreadful awe in the eyes of her companions, still hunched over on the ground. What the hell…?  


Claire looks up, and her heart nearly stops. Just above the rooftops, the sky, a clear blue only moments before, is rapidly filling with thick black smoke. It spreads everywhere, until at last nothing of the sun’s light remains, everything cast into darkness.  


“Demons?” asks Claire, barely able to force the whisper out. Her hand hovers just above the hilt of the Grigori sword, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice.  


“I don’t know,” gasps Jody as she struggles to her feet, pulling Annie up with her and then wrapping her other hand around Claire’s arm. Suddenly the sheriff is tugging them towards the car at the end of the empty lot. “Come on girls, we’re getting out of here!”

 

|

 

Linda Tran is burying a body when it happens. She’s out on the edge of the woods somewhere a ways from her home in Michigan, and as the ground breaks beneath the blows of the shovel she can feel the sweat slicking the back of her neck. She keeps digging until her arms are sore and the hole is up to her shoulders. She turns to the battered vehicle she had hot-wired, dragging the kitsune corpse from the back, the blue tarp it’s wrapped in making crinkling sounds as it runs over the ground. She hauls the body over to the hole, throwing it in unceremoniously (she feels a tad bit bad for it, but really she isn’t strong enough to set it down gently). And then she turns to the pile of dirt and begins methodically filling it again.  


Linda’s head thrusts upwards, her muscles freezing as she holds the shovel mid-scoop, granules of dirt falling into the grave. The booming sound coming from the distance sets off alarm bells in her head, and as the black cloud descends upon the forest, she thinks that her panic is not at all without reason.  


It turns out that she’s very right.

 

|

 

It takes them surprisingly little time to pinpoint Metatron. Even without angelic guidance (the dirty bastard must have covered himself in anti-angel sigils); all it took was the S.O.B’s ego to give him away. The ex-scribe of God never really did have a penchant for subtlety.  


Cas is too weak to zap them to New York, so they end up taking Dean’s preferred method of transportation, the Impala (his intestines are thanking him). They spend most of the trip in terse silence, Sam sitting shotgun for the first two hours or so, and then switching with Cas so that he can fall asleep splayed out in the back seat. That leaves just him, Cas, and Robert Plant with the freeway yawning in front of them.  


When “Stairway to Heaven” comes on, Dean goes to flip the cassette over. Right now that shit’s just too heavy for him, and he needs something that won’t tap into a vein so close to his life. Cas stops him.  


“Wait,” he says, and Dean spares a glance from the road to meet the angel’s pleading blue eyes. The creases of his face are thrust into shadow, the rest of it illuminated by the cool light of the oncoming headlights. “Please, I like this one.” Following a beat, Dean nods and withdraws his hand. As the song progresses Dean sneaks glimpses of the angel, and his expression is one of soft contemplation. Dean wonders if it reminds him of home, but he knows better than to ask.

An hour later they pull into a small town off the freeway to grab something to eat at the nearest diner. Dean is distracted by the news broadcast playing over the tiny television mounted to the wall, and it takes him a few seconds to notice that a waitress has come to take their order.  


“Strange, isn’t it?” she asks. She’s a petite blonde with short hair and big blue eyes, and any other day Dean would call her cute. But today certainly isn’t any other day, and she seems to recognize this as well. Her name tag reads _Mary_ , which really shouldn’t surprise him considering that Mary is a pretty common name, except that it does a little. Mary turns to him. “I mean, if it was just one place maybe I could buy the whole eclipse thing. I may not know a lot about astronomy, but there’s no way the whole world would just go completely dark all at once.” She smiles sheepishly, pulling out a notepad and pen. “Anyways, what will it be boys?”  


Dean orders a bacon cheeseburger, and Sam, a salad. It catches both Winchesters a bit by surprise when Cas asks for a plate of fries, but neither brother says anything about it. Mary smiles again and goes off to deliver their orders. Castiel must notice their surprised expressions, because as soon as she’s gone he just shrugs and offers, “I acquired a taste for them when I was human.” Once more the conversation lapses into an awkward silence, the three of them doing their best to avert the eyes of the other two.  


Finally, Sam pulls out his laptop and flips it open, his fingers dancing over the keys in a flurry that makes Dean feel dizzy just to watch. “Find anything that might have to do with the Darkness?”  


Sam raises an eyebrow. “You mean, _other_ than the worldwide blackout?” _Smartass_. Sam sighs and shakes his head, taking a sip of his lemon water (pansy). “No, nothing yet.”  


Dean plays with his keys on the table, his calloused fingers running over a cheap plastic Chicago keychain his father had given him following Dean’s first real hunt. “Guess it doesn’t really matter. We’ll be in New York by the morning.”  


Ten minutes pass, and the waitress brings over their plates of food, placing them in front of them on the formica table. They thank her politely, and she flashes them another cheery smile before disappearing. Eagerly, Dean takes a taste of his burger, and it’s damn good, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to enjoy it. All it does is create a steady weight in his stomach, where a pit has been forming for the past 24 hours. He eats half of it before setting it aside, watching Sam pick at his salad and Cas carefully dip his fries in the ketchup on the side of his plate. It’s funny, how careful he is with each fry, how meticulous he is with the amount of ketchup and just how much he takes with each bite. Castiel must notice Dean looking at him, and Dean feels the embarrassment creeping up within him, but Cas doesn’t say anything. He simply pushes the plate a little closer to Dean, offering him some fries, which makes Dean smile a bit. Six years ago he wouldn’t have imagined that he’d be sitting in a diner sharing a plate of fries with a supernatural being he had stabbed in a barn upon first meeting. He takes a fry as Cas takes one too, smearing it in the pool of ketchup. Never would he have imagined that…  


Dean notices Sam looking up at them curiously, his eyes flicking between the two of men. Dean does his best to glare at him, and it works, because a moment later his brother lowers his eyes back to the screen with only the slightest of sarcastic eyebrow raises.  


That’s when the lights begin to flicker. Castiel looks upwards to the fluorescents, still chewing his fry, and from across the table Sam exchanges a look with Dean that he knows too well. It’s the look that prompts Dean to reach for the knife nestled in the back of his boot, and Sam to slowly close his laptop and put it away.  


Castiel is suddenly pushing Dean out of the booth, his angel blade falling into his hand, and thank God the rest of the diner’s nearly empty, because the last thing they need is a bunch of screaming civilians. The door to the kitchen bursts open, and Mary the waitress steps out, but Dean’s pretty sure it isn’t Mary anymore. There’s an unfamiliar saunter to her gait that rubs Dean wrong, causing him to clutch his dagger all the more tightly.  


The attention of the other patrons is now on them, and people start to get up from their seats, panicked whispers sweeping the restaurant. Mary swipes her hand to the side, and the people are flung against the walls, falling to the ground unconscious. She tilts her head, her eyes drifting over the two Winchesters and settling upon the angel. “Castiel,” she addresses through gritted teeth.  


Castiel’s expression hardens, the exact opposite of the relaxed demeanor he had possessed as he shared a plate of fries with Dean literally a minute ago. “Josephine.” Ah, great. An angel. If only that sentence could actually indicate something good. “What are you doing here?”  


Josephine blinks slowly, and Dean wonders if she is conscious of the tiny exasperated smile she is wearing. “I’ve been sent by Hannah. It would appear that you and and your _companions_ ” - she says the word with distaste - “have messed up again.” Castiel’s expression remains guarded, but Dean can see the nearly imperceptible twitch of muscle in his fingers fastened around the blade. Josephine continues.  


“I am your only chance, Castiel. Either you come with me and explain yourself, again.” She pauses, allowing the words to sink in. An angel blade manifests in her hand, fingers with dark blue nail polish fastening around the cool metal. “Or I have been ordered to kill you.”  


Dean takes a step forward to Castiel’s side, clutching his puny knife in what he hopes will come across as a threatening manner. “Yeah, that ain’t happening, bitch.” Castiel looks to him with furrowed eyebrows, as if to say, _Really_ , now? Dean shrugs it off, and Cas glances back to the angel.  


“If Hannah wishes to speak with me, I would prefer she do it herself.”  


There is an uncomfortable silence, and then a displacement of air as all of the sudden Josephine is standing behind Castiel. She raises the blade to strike, but Dean pushes Castiel out of the way in time to dodge the weapon himself. Josephine turns her attention to him, but then Cas is flinging himself at her with his own sword. Dean watches helplessly as the two angels engage in a battle that would put most James Bond action sequences to shame, and that’s when the windows burst. A shower of glass rains through the air, and Sam and Dean duck in time to cover their faces, but nothing more. When they assemble upon their feet there is a mess of swirling black smoke flying through the air, pushing its way inside of the unconscious patrons. The demons rise to their feet, a half dozen pair of black eyes blinking at the two angels and the Hunters. Josephine and Castiel back away from each other, turning towards the demons.  


“These fugitives belong to Hell,” says the first of the demons, a man with slick black hair in a dark grey business suit.  


“Oh, really?” sneers Josephine, raising her sword. “Heaven has already laid claim to them…”  


The angel and the head demon bicker back and forth, and this is enough to distract them from Castiel, but it isn’t enough to distract Dean. The fallen angel backs towards the nearest wall slowly, facing forwards as he cuts his palm with his blade and hastily begins to scrawl a sigil on the wall. By the time the two parties have noticed Castiel’s absence, he is already slamming his hand onto the sigil. Dean shields his eyes from the blinding white light, but his ears ring and he can hear the screams of the demons intermixed with that of the angel. And then it’s over. Dean opens his eyes to a room once more filled with unconscious patrons and a passed-out waitress.  


It’s Sam who asks the question, climbing ungracefully to his massive feet. “What was that?”  


Cas bites his lip. “A modification of the banishing sigil. Instead of casting away angels it repels spirits from the bodies of those they are possessing.” He looks down to his shoes, his expression grave. “Since I am alone in this body, it is mine. It did not affect me.” He looks up, his blue eyes harboring his usual somber, yet determined steel. “I suggest we leave now.”  


Dean nods, surveying the broken glass and the field of unconscious people. “Yeah, probably.”

 

* * *

 

They call the police from the landline and then make a bolt for it. “So what?” asks Dean as they speed down the road. “Heaven and Hell are gunning for us too?”  


“It would appear so,” agrees Castiel with his signature frown. “And then there’s the matter of the Darkness.”  


“No shit.”  


Sam inches forward in the back seat, his forehead creased as he processes the information. “What can we do to make sure that they don’t find us? I thought that we were shielded by the sigils on our ribs?”  


“Yes, you are,” confirms Castiel gruffly as he pulls something from the pocket of his trench coat. “But I’m not.”  


Before Dean can object, Castiel is rolling up his shirt sleeves and carving something into his arms using a pocket knife. Dean nearly swerves as he takes in the blood. His first thought is for the safety of the angel, who seems all too eager to bleed himself dry. But the second, and the one which causes his mind to fog with dread, is the thought of blood staining the interior of the Impala. “Cas, what the hell are you doing?!”  


Castiel finishes with the knife, placing it back in his pocket as blood drips onto his tan coat. And then, with a swipe of his palm over his arm the blood vanishes, and there is only a series of pale scars lining the skin. “These will conceal me from other angels. The demons, we can’t do anything about, but it will be easier to fight with only one side of the Veil attempting to find us.”  


Okay. Dean can’t argue with that. Dean sighs.  


“We’ll be there in two hours,” he announces. His companions say nothing, looking out of their respective windows in silence. Dean turns up the volume on “Stairway to Heaven,” and Castiel closes his eyes.

 

|

 

“I am sorry,” whispers Josephine, diminutive in the presence of her almighty brethren. “I have failed you. Castiel has cut himself off from us again, and I am unable to track him.” The angel pauses, and even in her true form she seems to quiver. “What shall we do? The Darkness is bigger than us, and the fugitives remain evasive.”  


There is a pause, and then Hannah speaks. Her voice is warm, forgiving, not what Josephine would expect. “Castiel is misguided; I am confident that he will meet his punishment in the end.”  


“And the Darkness?”  


The Heavenly Host waits with bated breath, the tension diffusing through the air. “The archangels are gone,” replies Hannah simply. “Our Father is nowhere to be found. There is only one thing we can do: hide.”

 

|

 

Despite the freaky darkness which clings to the skyline, New York City is still bustling with people. University students, businessmen, and vacationers navigate the streets, all too busy to spare a moment of worry to the glaringly obvious _wrongness_ looking them straight in the face. Dean isn’t certain whether or not he should applaud them for their staunchness or observe in horror the extent of their ignorance. But then again, New York State is generally overcast at best anyway; a little more vitamin D deprivation likely won’t perturb the residents too much. Sam seems pleased enough to be in the Big Apple, back amongst civilization. Castiel looks… unimpressed. Not that the guy’s expression tends to vary much from disinterest. When he doesn’t appear bored he just wears around that kicked-puppy look.  


Dean’s never really liked the city. Especially New York. It’s hard enough defending himself when he’s alone on a back road or with a small group. In a place like this a threat could come from any angle, and he would be none the wiser. So it is with great eagerness that he pushes past the giant lion statues guarding the steps and through the doors of the great library, Sam and Castiel in tow close behind. It’s quieter inside, the soft shuffling of feet and muted voices bouncing about the cream walls being the only significant sounds. Stone columns rise from the ground and arch gracefully upwards towards the ceiling, candelabra illuminating the room with a golden hue. For a moment they are all silent, but then they remember why they are there. Dean turns to his friends. “Why don’t you two nerds go sign up for some library cards or something? I’ll handle Metadouche.”  


Castiel begins to protest. “Dean, what if -?”  


“Dude,” he interrupts, motioning to the room with a wide arc of his hands. “It’s a _library_. I think I’ll be okay.” Castiel frowns in response, and Sam is wearing a bemused expression as he looks between the two men. But neither of them say anything, slinking off to do whatever it is nerds do in libraries. Probably read, a small part of him thinks sarcastically. Dean slips quietly away to find the archives and manuscripts division.

 

|

 

Castiel trails his fingers along the rows of books, feeling the cool leather of their spines against his skin. In many ways human physicality is frustrating and inefficient. But _this_ , the smell and feel of old books, millennia of gathered human knowledge; this makes it worth it.  


Sam is sitting at a nearby table, leafing through some of the library’s books on ancient lore; it’s doubtful that they’ll find anything useful in the compendium without getting into archives, but even then it’s dubious as to whether or not they’d encounter what they’re looking for. Sam knows this too, but still he sits and reads, wanting to at least _feel_ like he’s in control. As if it were a regular hunt.  


Continuing his aimless traverse up and down the aisles of tomes, Castiel’s thoughts turn back to the abandoned warehouse. He remembers most of it now: the attack dog spell, Rowena getting away. Crowley’s bizarre mercy. And Dean. He remembers Dean’s voice, reaching him through the cloudiness of his infected mind. Like a beacon of light it had guided him through the dark and allowed him to break free of the enchantment, the wool lifted just in time. Just a few seconds more and there’s no telling…  


Castiel stops there, not allowing his thoughts to wander any further down that line of inquiry. They broke the spell before he could hurt anyone, so why bother postulating the outcome otherwise? Just like back at the Bunker; Dean _hadn’t_ killed him, no matter how close he had come. That’s all that matters, right? Then why does it still hurt?  


_Because…_  


Shaking his head Castiel comes to stop before the last bookshelf in the row, and as he traces his fingers away to fall at his side he notices what book they had been hovering over: by odd coincidence it happens to be Miguel de Cervantes’ _Don Quixote_ , the very same book that Metatron had hidden Castiel’s grace inside. This world truly is bizarre.

 

|

 

The man does not glance up as Dean enters the room, instead remaining bent over the text sitting upon his desk. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” he says with undisguised boredom. He moves to itch his ear, leaning against his other arm as he does so, his fingers raking through his matted curly hair. Dean doesn’t move, just stands there until at last the man looks up. And then he smiles. “Hello, asshat.”  


Metatron sighs theatrically, placing a marker in the book and carefully closing the cover. “Well if it isn’t the great Dean Winchester. I see that you’ve royally screwed the world over once again. It’s not like the sky turning black is very difficult to miss.”  


Dean pulls the angel blade from the safety of his jacket, slipping the cool metal into his hands. Metatron raises an eyebrow. “You know,” he says, “a gun would do just fine. Might occupy less of your meager brain power too.”  


“I’m not here to kill you,” says Dean gruffly, and this prompts a reaction of genuine surprise from Metatron.  


“Okay. So what, are you just going to carve me up and leave me on the floor of the New York Public Library? Really, Dean, you’ve had better ideas…”  


“No.” Dean hesitates. “I’m here to make a deal you dick.”  


Again Metatron sighs, stepping out from behind the desk. He is wearing a ratty brown jumper and loafers, and if it weren’t for the fact that the man was once the Scribe of God it might have been funny. “Really you could have just called Crowley for that, considering you two are BFFs now.”  


Dean blinks, smiling sadistically. “Oh, how I wish I could knife you right now.”  


Metatron grins sardonically, his eyes drifting to Dean’s forearm over where the Mark used to be. “But you won’t.” The smirk lingers on his lips as he looks up to Dean with a bravado he has certainly not lost since the confiscation of his grace. “Flattered as I am, Dean, I am but a mere human now trying to live a simple life. If you and the rest of the meddling kids could load up into that oversized piece of junk you call a car and be on your way I would be ever so grateful.”  


Dean actual does snicker at this as Metatron begins to turn away, retreating back to his work behind the desk. “Funny, I thought you would have wanted your grace back.” Metatron pauses mid-step, pivoting slowly to face Dean with an expression of curiosity on his face.  


“My grace?” he repeats. “In return for what, dare I ask?”  


“Information,” responds Dean plainly. “We need to know where Gabriel is.”  


Metatron laughs, a loud hacking snort which grates against Dean’s ears. It takes nearly all of his self-discipline to refrain from strangling the former angel then and there.  
“You _do_ realize that Gabriel is dead, don’t you, Dean? Bit it at good old Lucy’s hands.”  


“I don’t know,” says Dean with forced neutrality. “Did he?” A moment passes between the two men. Dean holds his stance, refusing to move even an inch while the scribe weighs his options.  


“Say I do know something,” begins the ex-angel finally, a sly quality to his words. “What guarantee do I have that Team Free Will won’t kill me as soon as you get what you want?”  


Dean can barely muster the energy to smile. “The goodness of our hearts. Oh, and the promise that I won’t kill you _here and now_.”  


Metatron tilts his head in a very Cas-like manner, and it rubs him wrong to see the tendency reflected onto the very man who had caused him so much grief. “I want to see it first. My grace. I suspect Castiel and your Sasquatch of a brother aren’t far away?”  


Dean only grunts in response, Metatron falling into step behind him as he walks away.  


* * *

 

Being confined to a vehicle with God’s douchey archivist is just as much Hell on Earth as Dean would have expected. And he’s been to Hell, so that speaks volumes. Certainly, he’s glad to be getting out of the city, what with its congested traffic and large crowds and herds of hipsters eating friggin’ Chipotle’s garbage (How on _Earth_ does Sam like that stuff? But then again, he was always a borderline hipster.). But leaving the city for the open road under a possibly eternal night sky with Metatron whining loudly in the back seat is enough to make him almost considering adopting the hipster lifestyle and moving to the city. Permanently.  


Sam just kind of shuts down, pulling out the cheap headphones they had bought at CVS (there was no way Sam was pulling Dean into a Duane Reade) and blasts his emo teenager music, sulking behind his ridiculously long hair. Maybe that’s why he grew it; to block out annoying ex-angels. If that’s the case, it _is_ a good line of defense. Castiel was unfortunate enough to draw the short end of the proverbial stick, getting stuck in the back with the creature that had singlehandedly wrecked his life for the past few months. He mostly stares out the window with an ungodly sense of restraint, even for an angel, but when Dean glances at him through the rearview mirror every now and then he can see the twitching of Castiel’s eye. In hindsight this was probably not the best seating arrangement.  


Dean puts up with a lot of bullshit the entire ride, but for the most part, he thinks to himself, he manages to keep it together. That is, until Metatron badmouths Zeppelin. That’s when Dean violently swerves the Impala over onto the side of the road, earning a few honks from the cars behind him and jerking Sam awake in the process. The car is dead silent as Dean turns around slowly to glare at Metatron, his elbow resting on the shoulder of his seat. “Listen to me you dirty bastard,” he says in a voice which is all too calm for the words it is carrying. “You have hunted my friends. You have screwed up Heaven, Hell, and everything in-between. Christ, you’ve _killed_ me. But if I _ever_ hear you diss Led Zeppelin again I swear to your Father that I will stuff your jumper down your throat and strangle you with my bare hands. Are we clear?”  


Metatron opens his mouth, weighing some sardonic comment or another, but then thinks better of it. He shuts his mouth and nods steadily, and Dean notices with no small amount of satisfaction that there is fear in his eyes. The rest of the car ride is refreshingly quiet.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later they’re standing in an empty field somewhere in central New York, nothing but the sound of insects and the bristling of leaves filling the evening air. Or at least Dean thinks it’s evening; he still doesn’t have a working watch, and what with the whole eternal night thing it’s kind of hard to gauge.  


Begrudgingly Metatron sets about drawing symbols and gathering ingredients for supposedly summoning the archangel, Sam helping him and Castiel ascertaining that the ex-angel doesn’t do anything to double-cross them. Back at the library when Cas had shown him his removed grace, though, shining in that tiny glass vial, the Scribe had seemed more than willing to cooperate. Albeit with no shortage of insults at Dean’s expense. Prick.  


Standing in the field and looking out to the scratchy tree line visible in the light of the Impala’s high beams, Dean thinks. He doesn’t like thinking very much. Going through the motions, hunting people and saving things, it’s much simpler. As long as he views everything as black and white it will be okay. But nothing is black and white, not anymore. Maybe it never was. So despite his better judgment Dean thinks, his mind going to dark places which no person should be able to envision. It starts with Hell; he remembers the torture, both that which was inflicted against him and administered by him. He won’t ever come to peace with the atrocities he committed in that realm, but he has learned to box them away like files in a cabinet. He moves on quickly from those forty years to his resurrection, to Castiel. The angel had seemed so strange back then, not at all like the person he has transformed into; _his friend_. He thinks of Cas rebelling against Heaven to save him, falling from grace for humanity. He also thinks of God-Castiel, of Leviathan-Castiel and crazy Cas, and all of the terrible things which have transpired beneath his misguided escapades. Dean thinks of his own mistakes; letting Ben and Lisa down, killing Sam’s friend Amy and just recently the Styne kid, of the Mark and releasing the Darkness. He thinks of beating Cas to a bloody pulp, the feeling of his flesh breaking beneath his skin. Cas hadn’t even fought back, Christ, why hadn’t he fought back? Worst of all, hurting him had felt-  


“It’s done,” announces Metatron, and for the only time in his life, Dean is glad to hear his voice, if only to pull him from his darkness. Castiel had pulled him from a different darkness once. He has never verbally admitted it, but if Dean thinks hard enough he can almost remember the feeling of something vastly warm and powerful cradling his broken shell…  


Dean blinks, glancing over to Sam, who is standing awkwardly by the car, and Castiel, who’s hands are shoved into the pockets of his coat, his expression stoic as ever. Dean returns his attention to Metatron, whose face is plastered with unkempt irritation. “Well, what are you waiting for?”  


Metatron rolls his eyes. “Give me my grace first, and then I’ll complete the summoning.”  


Dean shakes his head. “No deal. Cas can just finish the incantation-”  


“-Except that he doesn’t know how. It requires my blood, Bozo.” Metatron crosses his arms petulantly, leaning back a bit on his heels.  


“No dice. You do the summoning now or you won’t get your grace back, period.”  


Metatron laughs, and Dean fights the urge not to cringe at the irksome sound, or at least punch the guy in the face. “You _really_ think you have leverage over me here?” He sighs, that infuriating smile playing across his scruffy face. “Okay, I’ll do it; you two jackasses can’t seem to handle what’s on your plate, and if you think Gabe’s gonna help with this ‘infinite darkness’ crap then fine. But I’m taking something of yours as insurance.”  


Dean raises an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”  


Sneering, Metatron turns his gaze towards Castiel, and something in Dean’s stomach clenches. The Scribe raises a stubby hand and points. “Him. I want his blade until I get my grace.”  


Dean frowns. “What? No.”  


Metatron shrugs mischievously. “Angel blades can be wielded and used by anyone, but they are intrinsically attached to their rightful owners. Separation can… weaken an angel. I think that it’s fair enough insurance.”  


“I said no, buddy-”  


“Dean.” Castiel’s voice cuts through the air, silencing Dean. The angel steps forward, his blue eyes catching the glint of the light and his ruffled dark hair twitching beneath the influence of the zephyr. Something slips into his hand, flashing as it reflects the high beams. “It’s all right,” he insists, his vision locking with Dean’s. If Cas had been anyone else Dean would have counted this constant eye contact as strange. But Cas is Cas, and Cas is strange, and a small part of Dean thinks that he wouldn’t have him any other way. Whatever the hell that means. “We need Gabriel. I will be fine without this until then.” Before Dean can protest again Cas has passed the weapon to Metatron, the gnome grinning as he turns over the cool metal in his meaty palms. Dean fights a twitch tugging near his eyes and lowers his gaze to the ground.  


“All right,” he grumbles, directing the words at Metatron without looking up. “Get going then.”  


Metatron at least has the good sense not to retort to this, instead launching into guttural Enochian. The air seems to feel with an electric buzz, prompting Dean to instinctually take a step back, closer to the safety of the Impala’s hull. Castiel does the same thing, brushing slightly against Dean’s side, warmth emanating from his body. Sam watches from the other side, his eyes wide but his expression indecipherable as he silently observes the ritual; taking notes, perhaps, for future reference.  


Bringing the angel blade up to his hand, Metatron swipes the metal across the flesh of his palm, red blood welling from the incision and dripping onto the ground in the center of the largest sigil. The air is quivering now, and Dean can feel nothing for a moment other than primal panic. And then it passes, and the air is still, stiller than before.  


A moment drifts by, and suddenly Dean cannot stand the silence. “Well,” he says, and no sooner has the word left his lips than a dark figure appears in the center of the sigil, crouched on the ground as if it has just landed from some sort of flight or weathered some long and weary battle. The shape in the darkness is practically _screaming_ with power, so much of it that Dean feels like he’s choking. Castiel tenses at his side, and even Metatron takes a half-step backwards. The figure raises its head slowly, the features of its face coming into view in the light of the Impala. Dean’s heart pounds against his chest as his eyes trace Gabriel’s face. It is the same as he remembers it, down to the slightest detail, except for one thing: the expression. The Gabriel he had met years ago had held the remnants of a smirk in his eye, even when he himself wasn’t smiling. He, too, had projected power, but a playful type of power, like that which a child exerts over his simple toys. This Gabriel seems… cold. Cold and empty, much more like Dean would have imagined an Archangel of the Lord.  


“Gabriel,” says Metatron measuredly, and his voice is but a fraction of its normal timbre. The archangel tilts his head marginally to face the Scribe, his expression unchanging. He stands.  


“Metatron. I told you not to contact me again. Ever.” He turns back to look at the two humans and the angel standing against the side of the car. “Winchesters,” he says with a tone somewhere between distaste and affection; like that bizarre mixture of sympathy and revulsion one holds for a pet, something exotic like a hairless cat. Gabriel’s eyes flick to Dean’s side. “And Castiel. I see that you’re still making poor life decisions with Rocky and Bullwinkle.”  


“Why does everyone call us that?” Sam whispers under his breath in irritation. Dean manages a slight shrug in response.  


“What is it this time?” whines Gabriel, a hint of his former personality cracking through the stiffness. “I was in the middle of a poker match with Teresa of Calcutta, and winning I might add.”  


Sam furrows his gigantic brows, frowning. “Mother Teresa didn’t play poker.”  


Gabriel actually rolls his eyes at this, and Dean counts it as a silent victory. “And how would you know?” Sam’s frown metamorphoses into a full bitchface.  


Dean tilts his head back in disapproval. “That’s what you’ve been doing all this time, since Lucifer? Playing poker with nuns? We thought you were _dead_.”  


Gabriel waggles his eyebrows, and Dean suppresses a shudder. “Not just poker.” No one inquires further, and the archangel takes it upon himself to keep talking. “As touched as I am by your concern, did you _really_ think that I was going to go out so easily? I’ve been hiding, preserving my precious self because I knew it was only a matter of time before you two chuckleheads screwed everything up again. Besides, the past was a lot more fun than the present…”  


“You let me say ‘yes’ to Lucifer?” Sam asks, his mouth agape. Gabriel brushes it away with a wave of the hand.  


“Oh, please. You Winchesters are far too resilient _not_ to come back. Like some sort of bug.” Sam’s bitchface intensifies. “So what is it this time?”  


Dean crosses his arms over his chest, slightly thrown by Gabriel’s apparent willingness to cooperate. Not that he trusts it entirely, if at all. Far from it. “The Darkness.”  


Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot up, and something dark flashes across his face before he resumes his usual buoyancy with a low whistle. “Nice going asshats.”  


With great self-control Dean dodges the insult. “We have intel from an inside source that the archangels were the ones to banish the Darkness the first time around. So… will you help?”  


Feigning confusion, Gabriel leans in, cupping his ear. “Will I help, _what_?”  


Dean grits his teeth. “Will you help, _please_?”  


Gabriel rocks back and forth on his heels, as if swaying under the weight of the decision. “I really shouldn’t, considering that you two need to _learn how to clean up your messes_.” He looks down, and suddenly his face is very serious, once more the stony reflection of one of God’s most fearsome warriors. “I hope you understand how serious this is. If you thought the Leviathan were bad, or Hell, or even the angels, then you have no clue what you are in for. You think _this_ ,” he looks up to the sky, “is it, then you are so wrong. Because this is just the beginning, the teaser trailer. The feature is coming soon to a theater near you, special discount if your last name happens to be Winchester.”  


Not knowing how to reply, Dean and Sam remain silent as Castiel takes a small step forward to speak. “Thank you, brother,” he says, and his voice is warm and welcoming, the exact opposite of everything that Dean is feeling. “Your allegiance is appreciated.”  


Gabriel huffs, resting his hands on his hips. “‘Allegiance.’ Hardly. As soon as this is all cleared up I never want to see any of you again, Heaven forbid I kill you myself.”  


There is a beat of silence, and Metatron takes the opportunity to _(thank God)_ remind everyone of his presence. “Well, now that that’s all settled, how about my grace?” His beady eyes flick back and forth across the group, lingering on Castiel expectantly. However, it is neither the angel nor the Winchesters who turn to Metatron, but Gabriel instead. Without a word the archangel sizes up the many, measuring his unimpressive human stature. And then with a motion too fast for Dean to see Gabriel has drawn his sword, plunging it deep into the cavity of the Scribe’s chest. Metatron’s eyes widen in shock as he falls to his knees, blood oozing from the wound and gurgling up from his throat. And then the light is gone from his eyes, and he collapses into the grass, his dark blood irrigating the weeds. The Scribe of God lies on the ground in an unceremonious heap, nothing more now than a man without even the shadow of his wings to announce what he had once been.  


Gabriel looks up with cold eyes, sending waves of fear crashing inside of Dean’s stomach. Dean does not risk turning his head, but in the corner of his vision he can see Sam standing open-mouthed, and Castiel’s ramrod straight body. With his gaze fixed steadily upon the trio, Gabriel flicks his sword and the blood is suddenly gone, not a drop remaining upon the cool metal. He bends to pick up something from Metatron’s side, Castiel’s angel blade, and sauntering over to the Impala passes it to a dazed Castiel. “You’re welcome,” says the archangel, his eyes drifting over them before pushing the men aside and opening the car door to the front passenger seat. Dean pivots to face him.  


“W-what are you doing?” he stutters, not even attempting to hide his absolute discomfort. Gabriel raises his brows sarcastically, sheathing his sword, which disappears into some other dimension as it slips inside his jacket.  


“We’re riding Winchester Express, aren’t we? Something tells me you’ll need the time to get a plan going.”  


Dean swallows, but says nothing as he passes under Gabriel’s steady gaze and sinks into the driver’s seat, Cas and Sam following silently behind.

 

|

 

It’s strange, this human form. So fragile, so tiny and vulnerable. But with the Darkness binding itself to every bone, every ligament and muscle fiber, it is stronger than it has ever been. Unbreakable.  


The concept of having a body is alien, but it adjusts quickly, learning to mimic the motions of humans in order to carry out its own volition. It comes to even… _like_ it. The body itself may be several centuries old, but it’s well-preserved, and the Darkness is infinitely older. The woman is not unattractive, and it comes to like its red hair. It’s almost a shame that this is only a temporary vacancy.  


The Darkness sets up base in the remnants of a burned down house in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. In fact, the house itself had once belonged to a very good friend of the Winchesters, a man named Robert Singer. The location was not simply chosen out of spite, however, at least not completely; valuable ingredients and books still lay dormant amongst the wreckage. And with the Book and the Codex, as well as the items it had stolen from the bunker in Lebanon, this should be more than enough.  


The Darkness works in this shape, weaving weapons of destruction from simple components in a condemned house surrounded by a junkyard. It may not seem like much, but with every passing second it is calling to its counterparts, spreading its poison from the blackened sky into the population below.  


That poison is called Croatoan.


	3. Bright Night Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["Seahorse"](https://youtu.be/mzUbNObAJZo?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)   
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

Upon explaining the “grand scheme” to Gabriel he had simply scoffed at the end. “Let me get this straight,” he sneers. “You fought so hard to put Lucifer _back_ in the Cage and _now_ you want to free him?” All eyes (save Dean, who is driving, looking for a motel for the night) instinctively turn to Sam, who, despite his gargantuan height, seems impossibly small as he hunches over in the back seat beside Castiel.  


“Trust me,” says Sam, “it’s the last thing we want. But together you guys beat the Darkness before, and at current we don’t have any other options. Unless you have a suggestion.”  


Gabriel crosses his arms in trepidation. “I’d say our best bet is finding Azrael first, and then we talk about Lucy and Mike.”  


Castiel perks his head like the curious little bird that he is. “Do you have a way of tracking Azrael?”  


Gabriel shrugs. “I probably could. It’s simply a matter of whether or not he _wants_ to be found; I mean, look what _I_ did. And something tells me meeting up with the Winchesters is somewhere near the top of his ‘Avoid at All Costs’ list.” Gabriel frowns, looking to the radio. “For the love of all things holy, Dean, how many times can you listen to the same mixtape in a row?”  


“Hey! This is a classic, I don’t want to hear it feathers!”  


With a pleading expression Gabriel looks to the other passengers. “A little help here guys. I can’t be the only one.”  


“I’ve been telling him that for years,” sighs Sam, running a hand through his luxurious, feminine hair.  


“Dean does have a propensity for listening to the same arrangements more times than healthy for a human being,” admits Cas. Dean guffaws.  


“Cas. Come on man, I trusted you!”  


“Sorry, Dean,” Cas says in an utterly solemn tone. He sounds like he’s leading a funeral procession, almost. Dean’s funeral, that is, because with the snapping of fingers there is suddenly an iPod jack sticking out of Dean’s car, _his Baby_.  


“What the hell is that?”  


“Technology,” replies Gabriel, pulling a silver iPod out of thin air. He hooks it into the jack, and alternative rock begins pouring from the speakers. “Welcome to the 21st century. Oh, and I fixed your radio as well. No need to thank me.”  


Dean grits his teeth in silent protest, telling himself that the only reason he doesn’t rip out the douche-tech is that it could induce the wrath of an archangel. It’s not that he likes the music or anything.  


_“I want to be a little sea horse,”_ sing the speakers.

 

|

 

“So you think it was-?”  


“Oh yeah.”  


“Then are you going to-?”  


“Hell no.”  


The sky is still black when they get back home to Sioux Falls. And it stays that way for days. It’s on the third day that Jody concedes that it probably isn’t going away any time soon; the thing practically has ‘Winchester’ written all over it.  


Claire inspects the glint of her sword in the lamplight of the living room, turning the increasingly familiar metal over in her hands. It’s cool to the touch, soothing almost. As if it fits. As if it belongs to her…  


Jody sighs from across the room, glancing absently out the window at the blackness beyond. “We’d better start packing, girls. They still haven’t canceled it.”  
“You’ve _got_ to be kidding,” groans Annie. “It’s the friggin’ end of the world, and they’re _still_ having it.”  


“Believe me,” says Jody under her breath, standing up from the chair. “I don’t want to go either.”  


Jody goes to pack, and with an exaggerated moan of protest Annie storms off to her own room. Claire is left sitting alone on the couch, still turning the blade over in her hands. With a sigh, she sets it aside and picks up something else in her hands, something soft and fluffy. She hugs the frowning cast stuffed animal close, burying her face in its fur.  


She wonders where Castiel is now. Does he know about all of this, the whole thing with the sky? He must; whenever these biblical things happen he tends to be there, fight next to the Winchesters. Claire would never admit it, but whatever’s going on, she hopes that he is okay.

 

|

 

They never find a motel that night; the police scanner picks up something funny, and sure enough the Winchesters and co. are off to investigate. One thing leads to another and they wind up at a six-year-old girl’s ruined birthday party where the clown has literally been strangled by his own balloon animals. “Who would even hire a clown when the sky mysteriously goes black?” gawks Sam. “I mean, shouldn’t that be taken as an omen or something?”  


Explaining the presence of four grown men at the crime scene of a dead clown is beyond even Dean’s skills, so much to Sam’s delight he is elected the duty of finding a motel and doing research. Castiel, who’s social skills have arguably improved over the years, would still look and sound like a major creeper in his trench coat, and the last thing Dean needs right now is someone calling the police on them when they’re pretending to _be_ the police.  


So that leaves Dean with Gabriel. Alone. Standing in a backyard in the suburbs amidst the detritus of a kid’s birthday party.  


It’s got to be one of the most bizarrely sad things Dean’s ever seen. The girl’s crying in the other room. There’s a half-deflated kiddie pool tucked away in the corner of the fence, and paper plates with half-eaten cake on a plastic fold-out table, and even a piñata that hasn’t been cracked open yet. Dean just hopes that Gabriel won’t judge when he takes a finger of the frosting. In fact, the archangel takes it a step further and actually cuts himself a slice. Dean has to admit, the bastard’s got balls.  


The clown itself is enough to make Dean want to toss up the frosting, but Gabriel just keeps neatly picking away at the cake with his fork. It’s chocolate. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” he remarks.  


“No shit.”  


Thanks to Sam’s internet skills and a quick phone call, they find out ten minutes later that the guy was an escaped sex offender. Which really, if it took them ten minutes tops, shouldn’t the parents have been a little more conscientious of who they were hiring?  


Gabriel lets out a curious “hmph” in the car beside him. The expression is quiet, yet theatrical enough to set those alarm bells off in Dean’s head. “What?” he asks, his hands resting on the steering wheel of the parked Impala. Gabriel waggles his eyebrows, and something clicks. “Oh, you’ve got to be friggin’ kidding me.”  


“Afraid not Deano.”  


“Great,” Dean growls, fitting the keys into the ignition. “Trickster.”  


The Impala’s engine purrs to life, and the sound is almost enough to make Dean forget about the whole shitty situation. More of Gabriel’s odd music erupts from the speakers, but Dean’s too tired to even care, which is really saying a lot. “Any ideas?”  


Gabriel tilts his head to the side, producing a lollipop from his pocket and pushing it into his mouth. “A few. Sam said that there was another death a day ago? Something about a banker suffocating in one of his own safes?”  


Dean runs a hand down his face. “Yeah. Something like that. There were a couple of other suspicious deaths too.”  


“All local?”  


“All local.”  


Gabriel makes an infuriatingly pornographic sound with his tongue as he rolls it over the sucker, and Dean is momentarily tempted to turn up the music. “Do we have a map of the deaths and where they occurred?”  


“Not yet.”  


“Hmph.” Gabriel pops the sucker back into his mouth and holds up a finger, signaling Dean to wait as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a map of the town. Unfolding it, he scrawls a series of X’s over some of the roads with a pen that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago. The X’s create the approximation of a circle, and following a loud _pop_ of the lollipop, Gabriel points to the area in the center. Dean raises an eyebrow.  


_“Marv’s Comics?”_  


Gabriel shrugs. “I’ve seen worse guises.”

 

* * *

 

The comic book shop is this old, run-down looking shack located downtown. It lies cradled between larger buildings with larger aspirations, looking vaguely reminiscent of a beaten shoebox with it’s crumbling brick and peeling sign; at one point maybe the paint had been colorful, but now it’s worn and tired looking. Possibly the second unconventionally saddest thing Dean’s seen today.  


What’s more, the place looks condemned. Apparently it isn’t, though, because when Dean peeks through the windows there are still rows of tables with comics and action figures on display, and a line of flickering fluorescent lights. Dean looks to Gabriel, but the angel’s face is unreadable as he stares through the glass. It’s Dean who takes the first step through the door, the bell above ringing softly…  


And then he’s standing in the middle of an alley in a city where it’s pouring rain. And it’s the nighttime (still). And there’s a lit cigar in his mouth. And he’s wearing sunglasses.  


“God _damn_ it!” Dean whips the sunglasses off of his face, and the cigar falls to the ground, still fuming. “Why does this always happen to me?” That’s when he notices the rest of his attire: he’s wearing a black tank top with black pants and Doc Martens. Strapped around him is a sash of ammunition, and hanging from his back is a weapon that certainly looks semi-automatic. Which, you know, isn’t _too_ far a stretch from his actual life. But still, why-?  


Suddenly there’s this awful shriek, and Dean whips around in the alleyway to face the origin of the sound. A series of glowing red eyes appear in the darkness, and this is so not good, so he raises his weapon. The shrieking draws closer…  


What the hell?  


Okay, so Dean’s dealt with some pretty odd shit, including both real zombies and Croats. But _this_. This is like _The Descent_ meets _28 Days Later_ , which is so _not_ a good combination. So what does Dean do? Like every good action hero, he picks up the cigar, aims at the hideously mutated creatures with his ridiculously large weapon, and fires.  


The creatures scream, some of them exploding into a ball of flying guts which splatter Dean. The others keep lunging forwards, a hideous tangle of limbs and claws and sagging skin. The final line of offense comes within a few feet of Dean, and he starts to back up, still firing the weapon. Now he’s running, shooting at an awkward angle as he glances back and forth between over his shoulder and towards the space between the buildings ahead. He’s almost there. _Take that mother-!_  


The gun jams. Shit, shit, shit. Not now, come on! Dean keeps running, but as he tries to repair the weapon he is falling behind. He looks up into the horrendous features of the humanoid creatures, and he thinks to himself, _So this is how it ends_.  


There is a hacking sound, and the head of the nearest creature flops right off, its hungry expression frozen as it lops to the ground. Gabriel is wielding some weird apocalypse-modified battle ax, and as he leaps about, one by one the remaining creatures are decapitated. If Dean didn’t dislike the guy so much he’d call it impressive. Not that he’d ever even say it out loud.

As the head of the last creature falls to the blacktop with a satisfying _thud_ , Gabriel meets Dean’s eyes. The guy’s dressed in a similar attire to Dean, although he’s got just a tad more Rambo going with the bandana and the necklace.  


“So, zombies,” says Dean lamely.  


“Yeah. Although I probably would have gone for something a little more _Army of Darkness_.”  


Dean considers it. “Yeah… _klaatu barada nikto_.” He turns to survey the road beyond the alleyway, finding nothing but empty streets and flickering neon signs in the windows of abandoned shops. How the electricity is still going is a mystery to him, but one he’ll overlook. “Any idea on how to get out of here?”  


Before Dean can protest, Gabriel settles the ax in his left hand, raising his right with his fingers poised pre-snap. “Two can play at this.”  


And then the city sinks down into the ground, and when everything has receded they are standing in the middle of a field (when _isn’t_ Dean in an empty field somewhere lately?) with an army of animated skeletons behind them, wielding spears and swords, the whole nine yards. Gabriel is garbed in a coat of armor with his angel blade clutched in his hands, and when Dean looks down at himself he’s dressed for the part too, although he’s still clutching the gun.  


Yep. Definitely more _Army of Darkness_. And you know what, he actually doesn’t feel embarrassed. It kind of reminds him of Moondoor and Charlie. His heart swells. _Charlie…_  


A lone knight appears in the distance, and fuck, is that a bazooka?  


Gabriel’s skeleton army lunges, only to be mowed down by the lone rider’s fiery barrage. However, Gabriel appeared undeterred, walking out right into the middle of the pandemonium like it’s no big deal, as if there isn’t any possibility at all of getting _blown up_. The guy may be an archangel, but still there’s got to be some sort of survival instinct.  


The knight redirects his attention from the skeleton army and abandons his bazooka to aim a machine gun towards Gabriel, who keeps on walking. A succession of bullets flies from the weapon towards the angel, who raises his sword with lightning-fast motions and deflects each one like he’s just stepped out of _The Matrix_. Gabriel keeps marching forward. Dean blinks.  


When he opens his eyes again he doesn’t know where he is at first, and a fresh wave of panic grips him. He’s someplace tight and claustrophobic, the metal walls close together as they arch to form a series of tight hallways. His first thought is spaceship, until he hears the hissing of water and the groan of metal. Damn it.  


If there’s one thing Dean hates more than planes, it would probably be submarines.  


And especially submarines with vampire infestations. And again, this isn’t the type of vampire he’s used to dealing with, but some mutated version that looks like Alien was just bred with Predator. Dean begins to raise his gun…  


Gabriel snaps and once more the scenery changes. They’re in a jungle, and then a desert, and then a trench, and it’s just a rapid-fire game of tug-of-war that has Dean’s head reeling. And then it stops. They’re standing inside the comic book store, facing a tall middle-aged man with a grizzly beard as if nothing has happened. The man’s eyes are tired and sunken, like that of a bloodhound. They are crinkled around the edges, as if he used to laugh, but his mouth is pulled into a tight scowl, and is brows are lowered. “Gabriel,” he addresses in a low voice, stepping out from behind the counter. He turns to Dean. “And a Winchester. Just the two people I _didn’t_ want to see.”  


“Hello again Veles,” says Gabriel with a forced smile. “It’s been a long time.”  


“Yes,” agrees Veles. “Last we met, you were still calling yourself Loki.”  


Gabriel’s smile almost seems to soften in something akin to chagrin. “Times have changed.”  


“Indeed they have. Now tell me, angel, have you come to kill me? Once you were very much like us, but now that you have revealed your true nature are you really above us?”  


Dean doesn’t dare to intervene, but he shoots Gabriel a look that he hopes communicates the essence of _‘We have a job to do.’_  


Gabriel takes a casual step to the side, picking up a comic book from a shelf and flipping through it absently. “You know, I admire your work Veles. I learned a lot from you. But you’re right, times have changed. Under the condition that you do not make your presence known again I’ll let you pass Go and collect your $200.” He sets down the comic book and looks up, his eyes ancient and serious. “What I want to know is why you’ve started this? You left a long time ago to be amongst these humans, you said you were done with it all. So why have you taken up the game again?”  


Veles sighs, placing a gnarled hand on the counter. “This,” he gestures towards the dark sky beyond the window, “it can’t be ignored. I’ve weathered many ‘ends,’ many battles, but there’s something in the air and every demon, monster, and angel around the globe can feel it. This time it’s real, no thanks to you” - he shoots Dean a piercing look - “and if I’m going to die I might as well soak some of the poison from this land first.”  


Dean is fingering the wooden stake nestled in the inside pocket of his jacket, but Gabriel gives him a look to stand down. Hesitantly, Dean pulls his hand away, because honestly he’s beginning to have his doubts about this guy too. Gabriel speaks.  


“I admire your merit, my friend. We will leave you now.”  


The Hunter and the archangel turn towards the door, but before they can step outside, Veles’ voice carries across the empty shop. “Wait.” The two turn to face the old god, and it strikes Dean that there is fear in the guy’s eyes. “There’s something you should know. I don’t know if any of it is true, but there have been whispers. Some say that the Darkness is free, and it’s spreading the plague.”  


Something scorching flickers across Gabriel’s face for the briefest of moments, and then it is gone. “Thank you, Veles,” he says with gratitude. The god nods, and the two of them step through the door and back into the street.

 

* * *

 

The moment the two of them are in the car, Dean turns to Gabriel. “Okay, so what was that all about? What plague? Are we talking, like, bubonic or something?” His heart pounds in his chest, so loud he doubts he will be able to hear Gabriel’s reply.  


“I’ll explain when we get back to Sam and Castiel,” says Gabriel in a carefully neutral tone. “Then we should leave. There’s work to be done, and we owe Veles his privacy.”  


Dean stares for a while longer, but nods after a moment. He puts the car in reverse, and Gabriel’s trippy music fills the Impala once more. Dean makes no motion to turn down the volume. Anything to fill the silence.  


_“I want to see you be the bright night sky, I want to see you come back as the light…”_

 

|

 

One really has been spending too much time with Dean Winchester when their first instinct following a near-death experience is to find the nearest bar. Or the furthest, thinks Crowley as he takes another swig of his Craig.  


Curse that evil bitch who had birthed him. The binding had been difficult and exhausting, but ultimately he had been able to trap the rabid angel long enough for him to escape. He likes to think that the reason he didn’t kill him was because he physically couldn’t, but to do so would be simply admitting further vulnerability. That, and for some reason Dean is fond of the sorry angel, if Crowley _did_ hurt him it would only ascertain that in _The Apocalypse: Part II_ , Crowley’s death scene would be the first act.  


So he sits in a bar calmly sipping his drink while the humans point out the window and gawk at the mysterious cloud which has blotted out the sky. The King of Hell is able to slip away without anyone noticing, a generous tip appearing on the counter beside the empty glass.

 

* * *

 

Crowley travels for a while, bouncing back and forth across Europe, doing a brief stint in Asia, and then returning stateside as he attempts to avoid detection from Heaven, Hell, and everything in-between. He enjoys a drink every now and then, plays some cards, and even completes a few more minor crossroad deals to keep from getting rusty. It calms him, the deals; it’s something familiar which he had done before the Winchesters, before the angels and the Apocalypse, and before the Darkness. The sky remains dark, and the humans are up in a frenzy about it. More deals are made in such a short period of time than Crowley can remember in centuries.  


The King of Hell remains successful in his evasion until he sets foot in some crumby little town in Minnesota. Some pathetic teenager trying to get out of a weekend with her family has put out an open summons for a crossroad deal, and Crowley is itching for something to do. But when he shows up he’s irksomely ensnared in a Devil’s Trap. Someone else has already gotten to the woman, and it isn’t another demon…  


“You!” Crowley can hear the word growled only moments before something heavy collides with him, and when he comes to his senses, he realizes that he’s just been hit with a fucking shovel.  


“What the hell-?” His mouth ceases to function as he sees the person holding the shovel. Fuck… “Hello Jody. I was going to call, but I lost your number-”  


“Shut up!” she screams, raising the shovel for another blow. Crowley puts up his hands defensively.  


“Whoa whoa whoa, calm down!”  


Sheriff Jody Mills remains anything but calm, but she does lower the shovel… in order to take her cell phone out of her pocket and dial a number.  
“Wait, what are you doing?” Crowley frowns, and Jody casts him a glare. It’s only then that he notices the dark-haired girl at her side. Her eyes are wide, and her bows furrowed, but she does not look so much afraid as confused.  


“What’s going on?” she asks, and simultaneously Jody and Crowley turn to her to scream “Shut up!” Crowley can hear the phone ringing on the other end of the line, and then a click as someone picks up.  


“Yes, hi, Linda,” begins Jody, her voice going from volatile to sweet in two seconds flat. “Yes, I am well, thank you dear, and you?” Crowley rolls his eyes, and Jody threatens him with the shovel again. “That’s nice to hear. Anyways, I’m calling you because I have someone here I thought you might want to say a few choice words to.” The woman on the other end of the line says something, and Crowley thinks that she sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t place her.  


This time it’s Jody who rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not the Winchesters. Trust me, sometimes I’d like to chew those boys out too.” There’s a pauses as Jody contemplates the best way to introduce the topic of Crowley. “Try the King of Hell,” she says finally.  


The screaming which comes from the cell phone reaches a decibel worthy of Schwartz’s mother in _A Christmas Story_ (not that Crowley would ever admit to having seen it). Jody jerks the phone away with a cringe, only pulling it back after the shrieking has subsided into a softer string of cursing. “Just get here as soon as possible,” Jody interrupts finally. “I’ll be staying at the Starlight Motel in Hibbing, Minnesota. See you soon.” And with that she ends the call and stuffs the phone into her jacket pocket. For a moment she locks eyes with Crowley, but then she turns to the girl and starts screaming.  


“What the hell do you think you were doing, young lady! I made it very clear to you, you do _not summon demons_ , and you certainly don’t make deals!”  


The teenager throws her arms up in the air. “Look, I’m _sorry_!” she belts. “I just couldn’t take the whole sheriff’s retreat crap anymore, not with the ‘bring your kids’ activities! Sack racing, Jody! _Sack racing_!”  


Jody shakes her head. “Annie, I don’t want to hear it! You’re grounded!”  


“We’re staying at a _motel_!”  


“No TV!” This elicits a dramatic groan from the girl, the conversation dwindling to an end. Crowley takes advantage of the pause. He coughs, and the two females snap their heads to face him with demonic fire in their eyes if Crowley has ever seen it (and he has, many times).  


“Um, I’m still here.”  


Jody steps forward, unclipping some handcuffs from her belt and clicking them around Crowley’s wrists. “Yeah, and you will be for a while.”  


Crowley rolls his eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a rerun of _Cops_.”  


Jody looks up to the black sky in exasperation. “And in case _you_ haven’t noticed they’re demonic handcuffs jackass.” Crowley looks down to the iron cuffs, his eyes tracing the warding he had failed to noticed. So they are. He glances up in disgust. Jody toes the Devil’s Trap, breaking the seal and leading Crowley roughly by the arm. The girl, Annie, trails behind, arms crossed and sulking.  


“Linda Tran is coming in a couple days,” Jody spits, and suddenly Crowley recognizes the voice. “I trust you remember her.” The prophet’s mother. The woman he had held captive and tortured for a year. Yes, he remembers.  


“I’m tickled,” grumbles Crowley. Jody tugs him harder.

 

|

 

They’re on their way from the motel, and Dean looks like he’s just crawled out of the _Evil Dead_ series (minus the cool chainsaw arm). Which, considering the skeleton army, he kind of has.  


“Okay,” he barks, breaking the tentative silence. “Gabriel, you gonna explain now?”  


Sam takes this as a cue to pipe up like the nosy overgrown child that he is. “Explain what? What’s happening?”  


“Before you ask,” quips Gabriel, “we haven’t won a trip to Disney. Kind of the opposite actually.” The humor evaporates from Gabriel’s tone. “Right now, the Darkness is inhabiting a host. It’s powerful, and it’s able to move about, but it’s still stunted.” He pauses, taking a breath, and Dean’s pulse elevates. “It appears that the Darkness is attempting to expand its control by spreading what you have come to call ‘Croatoan virus.’”  


Dean’s breathing practically comes to a stop as images of Zachariah’s post-apocalyptic universe streak through his mind. _No._ They’d stopped it already, this isn’t supposed to happen. He runs a hand through his short hair, head reeling. “Well that’s just great.” And isn’t that the understatement of the century?  


“Do we have any way of knowing where the outbreak will occur?” asks Castiel, the soldier within him surfacing.  


Gabriel shakes his head tiredly. “We don’t know, but I can guarantee it’s already started. Give it a couple days, it’ll start showing up in the news. But there’s no stopping this one, kiddos.” He laughs bitterly, and hearing the defeated sound come from Gabriel is enough to make Dean genuinely afraid. “You ever read _War of the Worlds_? You can’t stop what you can’t see. There’s no cure, and no way to contain it. The other archangels are still our best bet. What we need to do is to concentrate on getting together our army before it can finish its spread. The Darkness is vulnerable as long as it’s inhabiting a body.”  


Dean’s most recently purchased cell chooses this moment to ring, blasting an AC DC song, which prompts a look of amusement from Gabriel. Maneuvering with one arm on the steering wheel, Dean reaches into his pocket and raises the phone to his year. “Yeah?” The person on the opposite end says something, and Dean’s eyes light up. “Jody? Good to hear from you.” There is a chain of something unintelligible to the others slurring from the phone, and the expression on Dean’s face hardens,, his heart racing. “Yeah, we’ll be there as soon as we can. On our way.” He flips the cheap plastic shut and shoves it back into his pocket.  


“What’s up with Jody?” asks Sam from the back, and Dean can see in the rearview mirror that his face is riddled with concern.  


“Annie tried to summon a demon, and they just happened to end up with Crowley. She’s got him in the cuffs, and she says she’s taking him back to the motel. Mrs. Tran will be meeting us there in a few days; she’s finishing up a hunt now.”  


“Great,” mutters Sam with a huff, leaning back against the seat. Everything is quiet for a moment, and then Cas says softly, “Did she say anything about Claire?”  


The muscles in Dean’s face relax, and he allows himself to feel something warm burrow in his chest at the angel’s concern. He meets Cas’ too blue eyes in the mirror. “Yeah, she said Claire’s doing good, Cas. She’s back at the motel with the others.” He pauses, the slightest of smiles settling upon his lips. “You’ll be happy to know she had nothing to do with the summoning.” If Dean hadn’t known Castiel as well as he did he wouldn’t have noticed the minute relaxed hunch in the man’s shoulders.  


“All right,” announces Gabriel abruptly, interrupting the moment and making everyone in the car jump as he claps his hands. “Road trip.”

 

* * *

 

After an inhuman amount of driving (and perhaps a little archangel interference), the Winchesters arrive at Hibbing late the next day. Jody greets them at the motel room door before Dean can even knock twice, and he can see by the red in her eyes that she hasn’t slept. Not that managing sleep is really a cakewalk when the King of Hell is your mooching roommate. _Cake. Pie._ Dean could use some pie right now…  


Jody steps outside, closing the door softly behind her and muting the circle of light which had warmed them. “Good to see you, Dean,” says the sheriff as she wraps him in an embrace, following suit with Sam. Her eyes settle upon Cas, and something in them softens. “You must be Castiel,” she says with a smile. She greets him with a hug, and Cas obliges, something he has gotten significantly better at over the years.  


“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Mills.”  


Jody pulls away, waving off the title amicably. “Please, just Jody.” She then turns to Gabriel, the only one left standing in the doorway unaddressed, with a look of confusion. “I… don’t think we’ve been introduced.”  


Dean glances back at Gabriel, and then returns to Jody. “Jody, this is Gabriel; Gabriel, Jody.”  


Jody holds out her hand to Gabriel, and after a moment he takes it, a wry smile on his lips. Pulling away, Jody tilts her head. “You wouldn’t happen to be, like, _the_ Gabriel…?”  


The archangel’s smirk grows, and Dean rolls his eyes. “The one and only.”  


“All right,” sighs Dean, ushering along the conversation. “When’ll Linda be here?”  


Jody shakes her head. “She wasn’t sure, said two or three days. She’s been having car troubles on top of the hunt.” And by car troubles, Dean’s pretty sure she means trying to find a ride to hot-wire.  


“And… Crowley?”  


Jody purses her lips, reaching behind her for the door handle. Dean remembers what the demon did to her, what almost… “Come on in.” Swinging open the door, Jody steps aside to welcome the four of them inside.  


Dean goes first, and what he is confronted with would be almost comical if he didn’t know better. Occupying three of the four corner of the room is a person, and not in the creepy _Blaire Witch_ sort of way. In fact, it’s more like time out. Sitting on the floor in the corner immediately to the right of the door is Claire Novak, her eyes shut, legs crossed, and earbuds in as she taps the beat of some song. To the far right is Annie, whose knees are pulled against her chest as she scowls through a mane of dark hair at the old carpeting. Finally, in the corner to the far left, sits the King of Hell himself. Held within the confines of a Devil’s Trap, and demonic handcuffs hanging from his wrists, Dean fights back the _very_ inappropriate urge to start laughing. However, he does snicker, and the demon catches this as he looks up dejectedly from the floor, irritation quickly blooming in his eyes.  


“Oh good, you’re here Squirrel. Is Moose with you?” As if on cue Sam steps into the room behind him, the beginnings of a scowl already scorching his mouth. Crowley returns to the glare before sliding his eyes over to Cas. “Castiel,” he addresses, and the angel says nothing. “Glad to see you when you’re not trying to kill me. And who is this poor S.O.B.?”  
Gabriel steps forward, that familiar buzz which had settled returning to ionize the air. “The Archangel Gabriel, you dick.”  


Crowley raises his brows, but otherwise looks unimpressed. “What’s the matter, Dean, one angel boy toy not enough?” Dean bristles at this, purposely locking his gaze with the demon’s to avoid whatever Cas’ reaction may be. He chooses to otherwise ignore the comment.  


Claire seems to take notice of them for the first time, opening her eyes and pulling out her earbuds. She leaps to her feet, and then as if remembering that she’s a teenager and can’t ever appear excited about things, slowly saunters over to them. “Hey guys,” she says, giving Sam a half-hug and Dean a fist-bump, completely ignoring Gabriel (save the briefest of glances). And then she turns to Castiel.  


“Hi, Claire,” says the world’s saddest sounding angel timidly, and the guilt alone laced in his voice is enough to make Dean’s heart break just a little.  


Claire manages a small smile. “Hi, Castiel.” Without another word she wraps her arms around him, closing her eyes and tucking her head into the lapels of his coat. With a gentleness Dean wouldn’t have believed capable of the angel if he hadn’t already seen it, Cas encompasses her in his own arms, one hand laced into her long blonde hair. Several moments pass before they finally pull away, and then Claire goes to sit awkwardly on the bed, her face heating with embarrassment at the intimate scene. Mercifully both Crowley and Gabriel spare any commentary.  


“So,” says Dean, turning back to Crowley. The petulant little creep weaves together his hands neatly over his knees, like a child awaiting story time. The mental image sends shivers up and down Dean’s spine. “What are you doing here?”  


Crowley seems almost disappointed in the question. With a languid gesture he nods towards Annie, who is still sulking in the corner next to him. She raises her eyes before returning her gaze to the carpet in frustration. “That one there summoned a crossroads demon, so I took the call.”  


“What, so that’s what you’ve been doing? Making deals? Seems a bit below the pay grade for the King of Hell.”  


“Bite me,” retorts Crowley before begrudgingly explaining. “I needed to lie low for a while, what with that evil bitch after me, you yahoos running about, and Heaven and Hell no doubt getting their panties in a twist. Again. So I figured, why the hell not?”  


“You _do_ know that Hell’s got it out for us, right?” questions Dean. “I think they’re looking for you.”  


Crowley waves it off, leaning back against the wall. “Not like I can really do anything about it while I’m in _these_.” He shakes the cuffs in the air. “When you let me go, I’ll call them off.”  


“Not a chance.”  


A few moments of silence pass as Dean steadies his eyes on the demon, weighing his words. He then turns to his companions, pushing them to the back of the room. Gabriel remains distant, choosing the linger in the only vacant corner as he silently observes the group.  


“What do we do with him?” asks Sam, giving voice to the question on everyone’s mind.  


“He certainly isn’t staying here with me,” responds Jody. “I can’t make any promises that I won’t murder him in the middle of the night. That is, if he doesn’t drive me crazy first.”  


“I don’t suppose we could just, you know… actually kill him?” Sam suggests, and there is a pause as the various parties consider it.  


“No,” says Cas finally, lowering his eyes to the ground with a sigh. His hair is more ruffled than usual, breaking free of its part and resembling more closely the chaotic bedhead he had sported when they first met. “As much… as much as we’d _like_ to kill him, he could be an invaluable resource against Rowena. He’s one of the few people alive who understands the extent of her power.”  


Dean groans, and everyone’s eyes flick to him. “This always happens. He _always_ gets a free pass and we end up paying through our noses.”  


“But would you rather risk it?” demands Cas, his blue gaze penetrating. Jesus, sometimes he feels like the guy can see straight into his soul. It’s disconcertingly possible, considering he _had_ raised it from Hell.  


“No,” Dean replies after a moment, and Crowley pipes up.  


“Hey, Power Rangers. You know this is a small room, right? I can hear you.”  


“Great,” Dean grumbles, and the circle dissipates. “So what now?”  


Jody licks her lips, sitting down on the bed beside Claire. “We can discuss things, get a plan laid out. When Linda gets here we’ll fill her in.”  


Gabriel joins in, stepping forward from his corner as he sticks his hands casually into the pockets of his jeans. “I suggest we start looking for Azrael, see if there are any unusual deaths and trace the death toll back to him.”  


Castiel bows his head in agreement. “Morbid, but logical.”  


“Azrael?” Jody furrows her brows. Deans sighs.  


“Maybe we should start from the beginning.”

 

|

 

Castiel doesn’t sleep. This is a fact which everyone in his company is aware of, yet they book him a room at the motel anyway. And that’s how he gets stuck with Crowley for the evening.  


Gabriel had gone over to the other room to do research with Sam and Dean, looking for signs of Death or Croatoan outbreak. That was several hours ago. The light is still on, but Castiel suspects that the Winchesters have probably fallen asleep over a pile of books and Sam’s laptop while Gabriel went off to do whatever it is he does; Castiel isn’t sure what that would be anymore.  


Even Crowley himself is rather quiet, and after triple checking the Devil’s Trap, the cuffs, and the binding sigils, Castiel allows himself outside for a breath of air. So there he sits on the curb in a motel parking lot at 3:00 AM, listening to the sounds of insects and cars on the highway beyond the small strip of grass surrounding the lot. He closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of the air on his skin and appreciating it as he had when he was human. He had failed so miserably in so many ways, but maybe for once he could…  
Castiel is pulled from his thoughts as a shape sits down on the curb beside him, and when he looks over he finds Claire in her pajamas (a weathered Radiohead t-shirt and some grey sweatpants). Her hair is drawn back in a messy bun, and she has washed the makeup from her face, but her eyes are wide awake and alert. “What are you still doing up?” asks Castiel gently in way of a greeting.  


Claire shrugs, looking over to the pool of light cast by the flickering lamppost. “Couldn’t sleep.” Castiel nods in understanding. He had had many sleepless nights himself as a human.  


There is a long silence before either of them speaks again. The two of them trace the paths of the cars zooming by on the road, similarly blue irises catching the glint of headlights every now and then. “How…?,” Castiel attempts finally, and Claire turns her attention to him. He hesitates. “How are you doing?”  


Biting her lip, Claire’s gaze settles upon her hands placed in her lap. “Okay, I guess. And you?”  


Castiel leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Okay, I guess.” The corner of Claire’s lip quirks upwards before returning to careful neutrality.  


“Jody’s been cool,” says Claire, wrapping her arms around her bare shoulders and shivering. “I mean, it’s not like…” She pauses. “It’s not like… Mom. But things will never be like that again.” She shivers once more, and Castiel shrugs off his trench coat and wraps it carefully around her shoulders. Claire does not protest, giving a tiny smile in thanks. It quickly fades.  


“I blamed you so much,” she whispers, and Castiel feels the familiar pull of guilt in his chest. “I still do, but in a different way. It’s not as… bitter as it used to be.” She turns to face Castiel, the angel looking to her with brows knitted in sorrow. “You’re an okay guy,” she pushes onwards. “Different from my dad. But you keep trying to be good, even with all of this crap coming down on us. It counts, it really does.” She closes her eyes and sinks her head against Castiel’s side. The angel tenses at first, surprised by the contact, but then his shoulders slacken and he lets her lay there. Her weight feels good against him, grounding.  


“I never got to ask,” she says a while later, her eyes still closed. Castiel had thought her to be asleep. She continues. “Do you like him?”  


Heat flares in Castiel’s chest, and he tries to ignore the sensation. “Like who?” he asks, scrunching his eyebrows in an expression of confusion.  


“You know who I’m talking about, asshat,” grumbles Claire.  


Dean. Ah.  


Cas draws his lips together into a tight line, his stomach doing flips. He had been aware of his feelings for the Hunter for a long time, but never allowed himself to fully acknowledge them. They had always been there, small at first as he learned to adapt to this strange new world. But the more he had seen of humanity, and then during his brief time as a part of it, he had come to understand what those feelings meant. He had just never thought that Dean could return them. He still doesn’t think that he ever will.  


“Yes,” he exhales into Claire’s hair. She grunts, but otherwise says nothing. It takes Castiel a few minutes to realize that she has fallen asleep. Gently he picks her up and carries her back into her room, careful not to awaken Jody and Annie in the process. He slinks back to his own room in silence, checking to make sure that Crowley is still there. Upon seeing that his charge is still confined, he retreats back outside and sits on the curb.  


He watches the cars go by in silence for hours, thinking of all of the humans who are so blissfully unaware of that which is plain before them.

 

|

 

The instructions in the Book of the Damned are simple. The Darkness pulls back to the house in South Dakota, combing the necessary ingredients to fabricate the virus. When it is done, it considers its first strike carefully.  


It infects the impoverished first, choosing the furthest and poorest corners of the Earth to sow its seeds. It doesn’t take much, as chaos already dominates there; simply the slightest of pushes, the tip of the fulcrum in one direction rather than the other. The black clouds descend, contaminating the air and water like nuclear fallout. As the villages burn and the people descend into madness, it spreads with the survivors. It won’t be long before it reaches the more stable territories, following the paths of its hosts.  


Soon the whole world will fear the name Croatoan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and Happy Friday! I hope that your day has been filled with double rainbows and other glorious happenings in commemoration of the legalization of same-sex marriage in the United States! So here's a little Destiel to celebrate. :)
> 
>  


	4. Paint It Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["Paint It Black"](https://youtu.be/9Uj9sduV3k8?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

Dean gets restless as they wait for Linda Tran to arrive in Hibbing. She’s still at least a day or two away, and Dean doesn’t bode well with sitting around idle, waiting. Outside of dire necessity, he’s never been a very patient person.  


Gabriel pops in and out without much fuss, sometimes even taking Crowley with him, although no one ever asks why or where they go. Castiel remains in his room much of the time, doing God knows what, and Jody and the girls reluctantly slink back to the final day of the sheriff’s retreat. Claire even tries to get Castiel to go and check her out of the event or something, pretending to be Jimmy, but it doesn’t happen.  


Sam sits at his computer most of the day, alternating between research and Netflix binging of _Twin Peaks_ when he can’t see straight anymore. It’s during the first Red Room scene that Sam finally explodes at Dean’s agitated pacing, slamming the computer lid shut and glaring. “Will you _please_ go do something? You’re driving me insane.”  


Dean stops in his tracks, returning the glare and spreading his arms confrontationally. “Like what, Sammy? We’re in the middle of nowhere, there’s nothing to kill, and I feel so goddamn unless it isn’t even funny.”  


“I-I don’t know, Dean!” Sam runs a hand through his luxurious hair as if he’s in some sort of hair product commercial and gives Dean the maximum bitchface. “Go see a movie, or something, will you? Just _leave me alone_.”  


Sighing dramatically, Dean grumbles, “Fine. Bitch.”  


“Jerk.”  


With more momentum than necessary, he grabs his coat from the back of the other chair and slinks out the door, slamming it shut behind him. _Go see a movie._ Dean can’t recall the last time he watched something that either wasn’t on cable or wasn’t pay-per-view porn. Has he even _been_ to a movie theater? Oh yeah, once, when he was ten he had gone to see _National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation_. Yep, that was the last time he went to the movies. He doesn’t even know what’s playing now. It’s not like he really has the time to watch movie trailers online or read the entertainment section of the paper. Damn it, this shouldn’t be this hard!  


Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s standing outside of Cas’ door. For a moment he just stares, but then he raises his hand to knock. Prompt as always, Castiel answers before the second knock. Dean looks him up and down in mild surprise; he’s sans trench coat, wearing his black pants and dress shirt with the first couple buttons undone, so that a dark grey undershirt is visible beneath the white fabric. Although his expression is just as stable as always, he looks… tired. Like he could use some rest, even though he doesn’t sleep.  


“Hello, Dean,” greets Cas in a gruff voice.  


“Oh, um, hey Cas.” A few seconds pass as they just stare at each other, which really is normal for them, except it isn’t. Cas tilts his head to the side a bit, his eyes still fixed firmly on the Hunter.  


“Dean, is something wrong?”  


“What? Oh, no, everything’s fine. I was just wondering, uh… I’m going to go catch a movie or something. I’m going a bit stir crazy here. Do you… want to come?”  


Castiel raises his eyebrows, but not at all in a condescending way. The guy looks genuinely surprised. Which, okay, maybe Dean would be too if he were on the receiving end of the invitation.  


“Sure,” replies Castiel finally. “I would like that.” The angel ducks back inside the room for a couple of seconds, and Dean waits awkwardly as he emerges with his suit jacket and trench coat. Shrugging on the extraneous garments, he looks to Dean uncertainly.  


“Dean, I’ve never been to the movies.”  


Dean shrugs, disregarding the one _Christmas Vacation_ viewing. “Neither have I.”  


Castiel smooths out his coat gingerly. “What are we going to see?”  


The tiniest of smiles tugs at the corners of Dean’s mouth. “I have no clue.”

 

|

 

“What am I looking at?” asks Crowley. They stand at the lip of a great crater, something larger than human perception. The cavity exists between Heaven and Hell, belonging to neither Earth nor Purgatory; it is something of it’s own plane, a scar as old as the universe which had recently been torn back open.  


Gabriel looks down into the crater. “This was where the final battle against the Darkness was fought. It was here that we sealed it into another dimension, here that the Mark was formed and Lucifer began his path to corruption.”  


Crowley looks down to the cavity, not without reverence. His expression is strangely leveled, and it’s as if they exist on the same plane right here and right now. Demons, angels, and humans alike, none are impervious to the destructive nature of the Darkness.  


“Why are you showing me this?” Crowley tears his eyes away from the crater to look at Gabriel for only a second before returning to the hole.  


The archangel’s wings shiver, but his face remains unreadable. “Because I need you to understand how serious this is. It won’t just be the humans who get wiped out if the Darkness wins. It will be _all_ of us. No more Earth, no more Heaven, no more Purgatory, and no more Hell. Just _nothing_.” Gabriel turns to the demon, his eyes narrowing. “If we’re going to beat this, we’re going to need the power of Hell _and_ Heaven.”  


“Hmph.” The King of Hell makes a contemplative noise, his eyes surveying the damage below. “You want me to commandeer Hell’s army?”  


“Yes.”  


Crowley sighs, at last turning away from the cavity for good. “All right. I’ll do it. But I’ll need something from you.”  


Gabriel tilts his head back, his wings arching imperiously behind him. The archangel does not take kindly to negotiation, particularly from demons. “Yeah? What would that be?”  


“Relax,” huffs Crowley, crossing his arms behind his back. “Don’t get your feathers all in a twist. All I want is the assurance that after this is all over you’ll leave me and Hell alone. We’ll stay out of Heaven’s way. I’m tired of being another pawn in this game. I’d rather not be playing at all, if you know what I mean.”  


“Yes,” replies Gabriel languidly, staring into the black crevice. “I know.”

 

|

 

They end up walking to town and watching some horror flick. Which, you know, might not be the best decision considering the content of Dean Winchester’s life. But the only other movies playing at the rundown theater were some dumb chick flick and a kid’s film, neither of which he was going to watch so long as he was still breathing. Horror film it was.  


Dean will never admit to another living soul that he jumped. More than once. More like five to ten times. Because his life may be the real world equivalent of the horror genre, but that doesn’t stop him from startling, spilling popcorn all over himself as he catches Cas hiding a snicker with his hand.  


Okay, so poltergeists are scary shit. He’s lived through them, it’s like PTSD. He’s got a legitimate excuse.  


Except that Castiel doesn’t flinch once throughout the entire film. Maybe it comes down to angelic powers or something, but _still_. Dean leans over to him partway through the movie and whispers, “Dude, you don’t find _any_ of this scary?”  


The angel just shrugs, taking a piece of popcorn from the half-empty bucket and putting it into his mouth. “I’ve seen worse things in Heaven alone.” Dean shuts up after that, because that just isn’t right. He thinks back to that time Cas had been reconditioned after Anna, and then again to when Naomi had been controlling him. And really, the aftereffects alone had been terrifying enough. Dean can’t imagine what it was like to actually live through it all.  


How did Heaven’s tortures compare with Hell?  


Dean misses the end of the movie because he’s too lost in contemplation. Castiel gives him a funny look as they walk out of the theater, but he doesn’t ask and Dean doesn’t offer. They begin the long trek home, walking along the side of the road and hugging the border of the woods, the light of Dean’s phone guiding them.  


Dean feels small in the dark, and now that it’s dark all of the time he feels even smaller. Helpless. He doesn’t share this thought with Castiel either, but as they progress he can feel the angel drawing steadily closer until they are pressed up side by side. Dean doesn’t push away from the contact; the weight of Castiel feels good. It feels _right_ , although he’s afraid to acknowledge the full implications of that notion.  


They’re nearly halfway back to the motel when Dean hears a noise. The Hunter and the angel stop in their tracks, looking about the darkness in shared caution. Dean’s heart pounds in his ears, the familiar rush of adrenaline powering his limbs. He stands defensively back to back with Castiel, pulling his gun from his waistband as the angel draws his blade.  


The Hunter jumps as he feels something cold and wet hit his face. He looks up to the sky, and another droplet collides with his face. Suddenly his entire body is being covered.  


It’s raining.  


That’s when the demons descend. It all happens blindingly fast, just as quickly as the sky had opened up above them. He is being thrust to the ground by a demon wearing a teenage girl he had seen at the theater, and the gun is thrown from his hands. He struggles to reach the knife in his boot, but there is a sickening _snap_ and a shock of pain as the demon breaks the bones in his arm. A strangled cry escapes him, and suddenly Castiel is slicing the demon to pieces with a ferocity in his blue eyes that Dean has rarely witnessed. Two more demons appear, flinging themselves at Castiel, clawing at his clothes and his skin. Dean struggles to his feet, at last freeing the knife, starts towards the demons.  


_“Stop.”_ Dean recognizes the voice, and it belongs to probably the last person he wants to see right now.  


The demons free themselves from a panting Dean and Castiel, retreating into the darkness to stand at Crowley’s side.  


“Who let you out of your cage?” barks Dean through the pain as he clutches his throbbing arm to his chest, and the demon rolls his eyes.  


“Relax, Squirrel. Gabe’s not far. Besides, I think I’d be a little nicer to the person who just saved my ass if I were you.”  


Dean grunts. “What are you doing here?” asks Cas levelly. Crowley redirects his gaze to the angel.  


“I’m calling the search off. My people remain loyal to their king” - he casts an almost fond glance towards the demons at his side - “but I have assured them that I am here of my own volition.”  


“But you’re not.”  


“Dean, you’re really not helping your case.” Crowley turns to his demon minions and whispers something, and the suddenly black smoke is erupting from the mouths of the teenagers. Before they can hit the ground, Crowley snaps his fingers and the bodies vanish. “Relax,” he interjects before Dean can say anything. “I’ve zapped them back into town. The police will pick them up and blame it on a night of heavy underage drinking. They’ll be fine.” Dean scowls, but says nothing. He can’t afford to feel bad for the one girl they had killed in defense. Years as a Hunter have conditioned him not to dwell on such things. Otherwise, he would have lost his mind long ago.  


Castiel pushes himself closer to Dean’s side, and his clothes have already mended, the cuts healed over. Crowley takes a few steps forward, looking curiously between the two as the rain continues to drizzle down. “Poor Castiel’s wings are still broken. Care for a lift?” Dean’s soaked to the bone, and he’s tired and miserable and in pain, but there’s no way in hell he’s accepting Crowley’s offer.  


“We’ll pass,” he spits. Crowley shrugs noncommittally, “Suit yourself.” And then, before Dean can so much as blink, he’s gone.  


The Hunter and the angel stand side by side on the empty road, the rain drenching them until their clothes feel heavy agains their skin. Finally Dean turns to face Castiel, looking into those deep blue eyes. “You okay?” he rasps.  


Castiel nods. “Yes, I am fine.” His eyes fall to Dean’s arm, which is still pulled tightly against his chest. “You are injured.” The angel reaches out with his two fingers and touches them to Dean’s forehead, and suddenly the pain has evaporated. He lowers his arm, flexing his fingers.  


“Thanks, Cas.” Castiel doesn’t quite smile, but Dean can see the familiar crinkle about his eyes that indicates that he’s trying.  


“I am…” Castiel hesitates. “I am sorry that I am unable to fly us back. Crowley was correct; my wings are still broken.” And damn, if that’s not the most dejected look on the angel’s face right now. He feels himself reaching up to place a hand on his shoulder, the smallest comfort he is capable of offering.  


“Don’t be sorry, Cas. You don’t apologize for that.” Dean looks up to the sky, feeling the light pressure of the raindrops running down his face. “Besides,” he mumbles, turning back to the angel. “I don’t mind walking right now.”  


Castiel actually does smile at this. The angel pulls off his trench coat and they hold it over the two of them as they walk back. Dean doesn’t even care how stupid it must look, because in his own odd way he’s happy right now.

 

|

 

As the invisible plague spreads, the people look to the black sky in despair, finding that it matches only the blackness within themselves. In a village in Egypt a mother murders her three young children; in Madrid a bus driver runs his vehicle off of a bridge, killing all of his passengers and himself; in Paris a man goes into a museum and begins shooting people before taking his own life. At first it appears as nothing more than a series of tragic and brutal outbursts. Random, dispersed, senseless. Nothing more than what the world is accustomed used to. This alone is a sad enough thought to reflect the poison of the Earth.  


But then the incidents increase in frequency. The murders become a daily occurrence, taking place in towns and cities only miles apart. The neighbors swear that their friends were loyal, kind. Why would they ever do something like that? The bodies are collected, and blood tests are administered. The experiments come back with bizarre results, sulfur found in the blood of the victims as a result of a vicious, unidentified agent. Someone somewhere in the Old World recognizes the signs, an old Hunter who had heard rumors years ago and long since forgotten about them. The name “Croatoan” crops up in France, and the monicker sticks.

 

|

 

Mrs. Tran arrives ahead of schedule, pulling into the motel parking lot early the next morning. When she had seen Crowley it had taken the entire room to restrain her. Several near breakdowns and three cups of tea later she managed to calm herself enough to sit down and listen to Dean and Sam explain themselves. At the end of it all she had only nodded meekly and said, “Okay.” And that was that.  


Shortly after Mrs. Tran’s arrival, Gabriel returns with information. The entire crew is already awake, Jody, Sam, and Annie having run into town to bring back some breakfast for everyone. Claire is Dean’s room, hunched over Sam’s laptop doing God knows what while Mrs. Tran helps him to search for further suspicious activity in the newspapers. Castiel is still next door with Crowley, the angel appearing even quieter than usual this morning. Dean had noticed Claire cast him a bizarre look for a moment before either returned to their task, and he had simply shrugged it off.  


As Dean flips through the national paper a ripple of fear spreads within him at the sight of word “Croatoan.” Certainly enough, signs of the disease have been traced to northern Africa and continental Europe. There is the familiar discovery of sulfur in the blood, violent tendencies, increased strength. It is confirmed to spread through contact with bodily fluids, but in some cases of infection no such contact has occurred.  


They think it’s airborne.  


Despite the efforts to quarantine the disease, the first cases are appearing in England, and in the opposite direction, Asia. The United States is in a panic, people already doing what little they hope can prevent the spread. Gas masks, food rations, cleaning products even, are wiped from store shelves. Airports begin canceling flights to and from the Eastern hemisphere, and people watch in fear from the safety of their homes as the plague spreads, as if because it’s on the television it can’t really affect them. There is already one suspected case in Austin…  


Gabriel just shows up in the middle of the room, voice booming, “I’ve got something!” Claire jumps in her chair a bit, and despite all of his practice with Cas sneaking up on him, Dean still nearly goes into cardiac arrest. Mrs. Tran, on the other hand, appears completely unflustered, tossing a bored look in the archangel’s direction. Sometimes Dean thinks that the woman is unshakable. He had explained the whole angel thing to her over the phone and she had taken it shockingly well, but still, he would have imagined her to be at least a little bit freaked.  


Once Dean has recovered from his almost heart failure he asks, “What is it? What have you found?”  


Gabriel grins, taking a seat in a wooden chair which appears out of nowhere and procuring a candy bar from his jacket pocket. He unwraps the plastic, the crinkling noise rapidly escalating in ranking on Dean’s ‘Most Annoying Sounds’ list. “A lead on Azrael,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter.  


“Okay, care to share?” Dean taps his pen nervously against the tabletop, beating out the melody of a Rolling Stones song.  


Bringing his right foot over his knee and taking another bite of the candy bar, Gabriel elaborates. “Lansing, Michigan there’s been an outbreak of the flu, ten people dead.”  


Dean frowns. “It isn’t even flu season.”  


Pointing the remaining stub of the candy bar towards him, Gabriel states, “Exactly.”  


Mrs. Tran crosses her arms, leaning her back against the wall. “So say it is Azrael, what do we do? We just have to find him a vessel, right?”  


Finishing the chocolate bar, Gabriel crumbles up the plastic wrapper in his hands and focuses on tossing it into the wastebasket like a tiny basketball. It hits the rim and bounces in. “Easier said than done, sweetheart.” Mrs. Tran scowls at the pet name.  


Dean sets down the pen and stands up from the table, stretching his sore limbs. God, he’s tired. He hardly slept at all last night, not that it really matters, considering that thanks to your sponsors, the Darkness, it’s always nighttime. Friggin’ vampires must be loving this shit.  


“Let’s grab breakfast then and dash,” he says as he massages his shoulders, stifling a yawn at the same time. Gabriel simply shrugs, and then disappears, taking the wooden chair with him. Dean and Mrs. Tran start packing, Claire quietly watching them as she does the same.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later Sam, Jody, and Annie arrive back with the food: a box of donuts, mercifully, and some squashed-looking breakfast sandwiches. Ten minutes following that they are on the road. Dean, Sam, Cas, and Gabriel take the Impala, Jody and the girls take her car, and Mrs. Tran follows behind in a battered van.  


After listening to _Led Zeppelin IV_ for the hundredth time in a row (Dean had temporarily won back control from Gabriel), Sam insists upon turning the radio to the news. Begrudgingly, Dean agrees, and instantly he regrets it. As soon as the radio crackles to life Sam turns it to friggin’ NPR (the nerd), but the general stuffiness of the station is not what gets to him; it’s the air of urgency in the voices, usually so calm and calculated. He listens as the anchor discusses the spread of Croatoan and the baffling “eclipse” which had simultaneously encompassed the planet. Some people are calling it an act of God (they could never realize the full irony of that statement), while others are blaming it on some sort of freak pollution contaminating the sky and giving rise to the new disease. One thing they can all agree on, however, is the subsequent crime wave which has followed the phenomenon; murders, robberies, arson. Tensions between conflicting countries are at a high, and the national suicide rate has drastically increased over the past few days alone. It’s as if when someone turned the lights out the world settled on the intent to bring about its own demise.  


Perhaps, thinks Dean as the Impala’s headlights pierce the black sky, that is the point of the Darkness.

 

|

 

It doesn’t pay much attention to the little humans who had freed it. What are they, but mayflies in the vast existence which it has known? It isn’t until Croatoan reaches in North America that it senses the presence of something ancient, almost as old as itself, hovering about some otherwise insignificant city in United States that it decides to intervene.

 

|

 

It’s dark when they arrive in Lansing. But then again, it’s always dark nowadays, even when it shouldn’t be. And Dean doesn’t mean that in the metaphorical way either (although that little box is ticked in his head as well).  


Their motley crew checks into the nearest motel they can find to the hospital holding the flu patients, taking up three rooms the same as last time. It is agreed that Gabriel will accompany Dean and Sam to the hospital, while Cas remains at the motel with Jody, Mrs. Tran, Crowley and the girls, doing research about possible vessels for the Angel of Death and Croatoan.  


The drive to the hospital is dreary, and Dean almost misses the road he’s supposed to turn onto in the dark. He’s feeling fatigued, although by his standards he hasn’t been getting any less sleep than usual; perhaps it’s the sky, finally taking its toll on him. Didn’t they say that people in Alaska suffer from depression more than people in other states because of the sky there? Sam would probably know.  


They pull into the hospital parking lot, suits on and IDs ready as they march up to the front desk. Gabriel mojos himself into a suit and badge, and Dean thinks it looks strange to see the archangel in such formal attire; oddly reminiscent of the garb of his other dick-faced siblings. Not that Gabriel isn’t a dick. It’s just that right now he’s slightly less of one on Dean’s list, despite the whole Apocalypse ditching situation. It’s not like there’s really much time to hold grudges lately.  


Dean tells the woman at the desk that they’re from the CDC, showing her their badges, and she goes to fetch the doctor in charge of the flu patients. He is a tall man with greying hair, gangly limbs and too-white teeth. It’s like the dude just walked out of a Viagra commercial or something. Or maybe Touch of Grey. They tend to cross-pollinate actors.  


“It’s strange,” says Dr. Viagra. “I mean, yeah, we’ve had flu outbreaks and some pretty bad ones of the past few years. But this one’s… different.”  


“Different how?” asks Sam with a concerned frown. Gabriel takes up the rear, an action odd for the generally loud and cocky archangel. Dean doesn’t like it.  


“I don’t know. It’s just, usually it’s old folks or children who are prone to it. But this is hitting people across the field, whole families hospitalized, some patients dead in 24 hours. I’m urging quarantine, and I presume that might be why you’re here. I was starting to think the CDC wouldn’t step in, what with them concentrating on Croatoan.”  


“Yes, we’ve been very busy lately. We will consider the quarantine after we see the ward.”  


“Hey, would you excuse us for a second?” Dean places a hand on Gabriel’s arm, and both Sam and Dr. Viagra turn to face him with matching expressions of puzzlement.  


“Um, yeah. Certainly.”  


Dean pulls aside Gabriel, who scowls but allows himself to be led around the bend and into an empty hallway. “Listen,” says Dean, looking everywhere but Gabriel’s eyes. He doesn’t like being this close to the archangel, especially considering that he killed Dean like two-hundred-something-odd times. “I’m not gonna pretend that it’s okay that you skimped out on the Apocalypse, or even that I give a shit about you. But you aren’t you, you’re… different.” Gabriel quirks a brow, but allows the Hunter to continue. “If we’re going to beat this thing together, I need to know: what happened?”  


Gabriel’s eyes are anything but soft, but at least some of the condescension has lifted. His gaze drifts off to the corner of the far wall to something unseen, perhaps a crack or a mote of dust or even nothing at all. “You and your brother, you’ve been Hunters all of your life. You know your places, what you have to do, even if you royally screw it up half of the time.” Dean grunts, and Gabriel chooses to ignore him. “But me, I’m… I used to know who I was, a long time ago. I did my job, I followed orders. And then suddenly I had no clue. Dad was gone, Lucifer was kicked out of the house, and everyone was squabbling about, forming groups and breaking down the order into something ugly.  


“I left, I learned a few tricks from the Pagans, and I made a new identity for myself. I wasn’t Gabriel anymore, I was the Trickster, and suddenly I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted. I could punish the wicked, reward the good. I didn’t have to bow to anyone’s morals or ideals except my own.” The wistful look on Gabriel’s face suddenly twists into something depraved, and Dean feels his gut wrench in apprehension. “But then _you_ showed up, and suddenly I couldn’t run anymore. I had to be Gabriel again. But I just couldn’t… I wasn’t ready.”  


“Pretty hypocritical of you, isn’t it? What with the whole ‘play your roles’ rant you gave us?”  


Gabriel glares, and Dean can feel the air electrify. Damn his mouth…  


“While I was hiding the second time around it became explicitly clear to me that I would have to face it eventually. Because what I said to Lucifer, that was all true. It still is. You humans are stupid and smelly and immoral. But you have chocolate and television and porn, and the hell if I’m going to let that get destroyed by an oversized shadow. I know who I am now, and I’m here to fight.”  


Dean prepares to stop himself from saying something sarcastic, but he’s surprised when nothing comes to mind. For once he actually believes the guy, actually _respects_ him. “Okay. Let’s go.” There is nothing else to be said as the two uneasy allies head back to join Sam.

 

|

 

All is quiet when Jody looks up from Sam’s laptop with a frown on her face. Brown eyes flicker up from the computer screen, searching the occupants of the room. “Looks like we might have a hunt,” she announces, and Linda swiftly moves to her side. Mrs. Tran has a hardened look to her; Castiel knows that her son, Kevin is dead, and that she had taken his spirit back home with her when the Veil was still congested. Whatever happened to him since then, he knows better than to ask. He is all too aware of what happens to spirits who remain on Earth for too long. He thinks back to Bobby.  


“Looks like a vampire nest,” comments Linda as she scans for information. She looks back down to Jody. “Probably something we could take care of quickly enough.”  


“Vampires?” asks Annie with wide eyes. Jody shoots her a look, but it softens for the briefest of moments in sympathy. “You’re still grounded, young lady,” she says.  


“But I’m not.” Claire stands up, reaching to grab an object from her duffel. Something tightens in Castiel’s chest as he sees the familiar hilt of the Grigori sword, and he recalls the terrible price she had paid to obtain it.  


Jody’s lips press into a pale, thin line. “I’m sorry, Claire. Not today.”  


“But I’m a good fighter, and you know it! How many times have I backed you up on hunts?”  


“Hunts?” Castiel frowns, turning to Jody. “You’ve been taking her on hunts?”  


Closing her eyes, Jody nods. “Yes. I’ve been teaching both of them to hunt; they know what’s out there, so they might as well know how to protect themselves.”  


“I wasn’t objecting,” supplies Castiel neutrally. Because despite his concern, he agrees with her. It would be far crueler to leave the children without knowledge, without defense, in a world like this.  


Content, Jody returns her attention to Claire. The sword rests on the bedspread, its blade catching the light, and the girl crosses her arms over her chest. “With everything that’s going on I think it would be best if you stayed here with Annie and Castiel,” explains the sheriff. Claire huffs, but she does not talk back.  


“Ah, and don’t forget me,” says Crowley from his corner, raising his hands in a wave.  


“Shut up, Crowley.”

After the two Hunters have left, Annie sits down in the battered chair and puts on a pair of bulky white headphones, leaning back and going to sleep. Crowley occupies himself with an edition of _Entertainment Weekly_ procured from Claire’s bag (-“Do you promise to be quiet if I give this to you?” -“Yes, yes, of course. Now please let me wallow in my pity!”), and Claire is sat upon hers and Annie’s bed reading a book about Enochian Lore that Cas suspects came from the Bunker. Silently, Castiel takes a seat on the bed opposite of Claire’s, groping awkwardly for words. Years ago he wouldn’t have bothered with conversation, deeming the process frivolous and pointless. But years ago he was an entirely different person, another creature. Much has transpired since then.  


“If you have any questions about that, I can answer them.” Claire looks up at Castiel, who is pointing to the thick volume in her hands. After a moment she nods.  


“Okay.” She goes back to reading.  


Castiel licks his lips as he thinks. “So you’ve been hunting?”  


Again Claire looks up. “Yeah,” she says without malice, whereas before she would have spat the word at him, a challenge. Now she seems almost… expectant. Like she wants Castiel’s approval.  


“That’s good,” he says finally.  


Claire blinks. “You really aren’t mad?”  


Castiel allows himself a rare smile. “No, I’m not. I think the correct word would be ‘proud.’”  


A small miracle in itself, Claire returns the smile. Crowley snorts from the corner of the room, but says nothing. Both Claire and Cas glare at him.  


After a moment Claire shuts the book and maneuvers onto the bed beside him, legs tucked beneath her and her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She’s curled it a bit, and today she’s wearing soft pink lip gloss with dark blue eyeshadow. The look suits her.  


“About what we were talking about last night…”  


Cas raises his brows, but gives away no further sign of his discomfort. “I thought you were asleep.”  


“I was awake enough to know what I was saying. And angels don’t sleep, so I know you were too.”  


Swallowing, Castiel waits for her to continue. He tugs lightly at the cuff of his sleeves with his fingers, pulling at the impermeable fabric.  


“So… does he know?”  


Castiel feels the corner of his lip twitch. “No, I don’t think so. Even if he did he would likely never say anything. As you have observed, he tends to ignore situations which make him uncomfortable if he is not able to shoot, stab, or punch it.”  


Claire smirks a bit at this. And then the smile fades, and her eyes go a bit out of focus, a thoughtful expression clouding her features. “You know, with everything that goes wrong with us, there’s no telling what will happen. There are things I wish I would have said to… my family. Things that I didn’t tell them, and I wish that I could now.” She raises her blue eyes to him, the same blue as Jimmy Novak’s, as Castiel’s. “You just… you never know.”  


“Oh for God’s sake!” Crowley violently throws aside the magazine, which lands face-up on an article about the latest _Avengers_ film. His eyes are wide, lit by a vehement fire that could only come from the pits of Hell (which Crowley very literally _does_ ). “I can’t take it anymore. You two are always standing too close and doing that thing with the eyes! The staring! _The staring_!” His voice reaches an octave which Castiel hadn’t thought possible for the demon, and he cringes a bit. “Whether or not he’ll ever get his own head out of his ass is one thing, but if there aren’t _feelings_ ” - Crowley says the word with evident repulsion - “between you then I’m not the King of Bloody Hell!”  


“Will you shut the hell up?!” Annie tears off her headphones, staring down the room murderously. Once everything has gone deadly quiet she returns them to her ears and leans back in the chair as if the outburst had never happened. Crowley straightens his suit jacket and picks up the rumpled magazine in indignation.  


Looking back to Claire, Castiel says gravely, “I think I understand what you are saying.” She nods sympathetically.  


That’s when there’s a crash of something like thunder in the distance, except Castiel knows that it isn’t thunder. He can feel it in the air, every fiber of him, both Jimmy’s body and his grace, screaming that something is wrong. Claire must sense it too, as well as Crowley and Annie, because suddenly everyone is on their feet looking about nervously. Castiel’s angel blade slips into his fingers, solid and familiar in his grasp. Claire reaches for the Grigori sword, and Annie fetches a gun from Jody’s spare bag.  


“Well?” growls Crowley expectantly, shaking his cuffed hands for emphasis. “Are you going to just leave me like this? Has it occurred to you that maybe I can _help_?” Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Crowley rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to dash. Where would I go? Release me now, and I promise I won’t run.” Castiel tilts his head in reluctance, but ultimately steps forward and undoes the cuffs. With hurried motions he erases the binding sigils from Crowley’s skin and breaks the Devil’s Trap. The King of Hell pulls a whistle from his pocket, placing it at his lips and blowing, although no sound detectable to human ears emerges. However, there is no mistaking the baying of hellhounds in the distance…  


But before the hounds can arrive, the door to the motel is blown open, a familiar shape eclipsing the entrance. Castiel fights the very human urge to shudder, gripping his blade tighter at his side, and he can feel Claire lean into him.  


“Hello everyone,” says the thing that was Rowena.  


“Mother?” The word sounds alien on Crowley’s tongue, some curious mixture between disgust and surprise. Rowena’s tilts to the side, cruel amusement etching into the features of her visage.  


“No, Fergus. We are not your mother.”  


“Hmph. Shame.” Crowley begins an incantation in rugged Latin, his lips moving frantically to spit the words out in time. However, the Darkness raises a hand, and suddenly Crowley is flung to the ceiling, blood oozing from a series of rapidly forming gashes.  


“Please, Fergus. You were never a match for your mother. And you certainly aren’t a match for us.”  


Castiel pulls Claire back with him, taking the event of Crowley’s distraction to paint the modified banishing sigil on the wall. Claire watches in terror, the sword trembling in her hands, but still raised in the air. The Darkness looks to them just as Castiel brings his hand down on the sigil. There is a flash of light, and then the red smoke of Crowley’s corrupted soul is swirling frantically about the room, his body still hanging limply from the ceiling. The King of Hell reenters his vessel much more quickly than the other demons had, but to Castiel’s horror, the Darkness does not appear in the least afflicted. It smiles, raising its hand once more.  


“Nice try, angel.” Rowena’s eyes harden, the snide grin disappearing. “What else have you got?”

 

|

 

The patients in the ward are pretty gruesome; covered in sweat, barely alive, eyes glassy and red. Dean watches them from behind the glass and wishes he could help, could at least tell someone that everything will be okay. But he’s been a Hunter long enough to know someone who can’t be saved when he sees them. It’s an unfortunate intuition he’s developed over the course of his miraculously long (by Hunter standards) life.  


“He isn’t here,” whispers Gabriel as they’re walking out of the hospital. “Azrael, he’s still in the city. But he’s elsewhere.”  


“Can you tell where?” asks Sam as they pile into the Impala, Gabriel taking shotgun (much to the younger Winchester’s frustration).  


Gabriel shakes his head. “No, he’s cloaking himself.”  


In the sky overhead there is the crackling of thunder. There’s something about it that seems a little out of place to Dean, but he dismisses it as the Impala’s engine hums to life. That is, until he looks to his side to see Sam and Gabriel exchanging a look of unease. “Guys?”  


“Something isn’t right,” says Sam.  


“You’ve got that right,” grumbles Gabriel, reaching over the seats to place two fingers on each of the Winchesters’ foreheads. Dean waits for that sickening lurch that he feels every time he travels Angel Express, but it never comes. He opens his eyes to see Gabriel frowning.  


“What is it?”  


Gabriel’s eyes actually fill with alarm, and seeing the panic in the archangel’s face is enough to jumpstart Dean’s heart. “Something’s blocking me. I can’t… I can’t fly.”  


“That’s it. We’re booking it back to the motel.” Dean stomps on the gas, and makes a point to ignore every traffic light in his way, only by some miracle not getting t-boned or pulled over. They make it to the motel in fifteen minutes.  


Dean bursts through the doors, and immediately he is gripped by asphyxiating fear. His heart pounds against his chest as if it might burst through, like it does in cartoons.  


All of the furniture in the room is overturned and pushed against the walls, as if a small bomb had detonated somewhere in the middle of the floor. It doesn’t take long for Dean to find that bomb: in the center of the room, dressed all in black and red hair a tangled mess, is Rowena. Except it isn’t Rowena anymore, Dean can feel it. As the former witch turns to face him he sees the emptiness of her expression, the dizzying blackness of her essence which goes far beyond physicality. For a moment Dean thinks that the rest of the room is empty, that the others have maybe escaped. But then he notices Gabriel and Sam looking up. With a deep, shuddering breath Dean looks to the ceiling, his body trembling.  


_Jesus._  


He sees Cas first, the angel a bloody pulp hanging limply from where he is suspended, his limbs nailed to the ceiling by some invisible force. His left eye is swollen shut, and the other is glazed over. He is weaponless, and his coat is in tatters, slicked in blood that he suspects isn’t just his own.  


Next his vision drifts to Claire and Annie, the two girls hanging motionlessly and in similar states. For a moment he is terrified beyond belief that they might be dead, but when he sees the slight rise and fall of their chests he is able to experience relief for the briefest of moments.  


Finally comes Crowley. The crossroads demon is perhaps in the worst state of all of them, his skin red and raw as if it has been burned. There are gashes all over his body, some deep enough that Dean thinks he can see bone, and if Dean hadn’t grown up around shit like this he would probably be retching right now. Mouth agape, he looks back down to not-Rowena.  


The Darkness incarnate pays Dean and Sam no attention, sending them flying with a simple flick of the wrist. Instead she looks past them to Gabriel, her eyes wide and almost curious, as if the whole concept of pain is fascinating to her. Maybe it is.  


“I remember you,” remarks the Darkness tonelessly.  


“What can I say?” replies Gabriel, although there isn’t even the slightest hint of humor to his inflections; his face is stony, resolute. “I just have one of those faces.” He takes a measured step forwards, and the Darkness observes the motion with interest. “Speaking of faces, yours has changed.”  


The Darkness looks up. “As has yours.” Gabriel raises his shoulders dismissively. His blade appears in his fingers, and he raises it before him. There is the crash of thunder, and with a flash of white-blue light the shadow of enormous black wings appears behind the archangel. Not-Rowena looks unimpressed by the display.  


Dean looks to Castiel at his side from his place on the ceiling. “Cas,” he groans, reaching out to the beaten angel, whose eyes seem to clear a bit at the mention of his name. His swollen lids open a crack wider, and slowly those blue orbs drift to Dean. But before either of them can say anything, a searing pain erupts in Dean’s chest, spreading through his nerves to every fiber of his body. His vision is tinged red, and when he summons the strength to look down at his body he sees that he is covered with a rapidly spreading stain of blood.  


Down below the two cosmic beings stare for what feels like an eternity, sizing each other up and searching for weaknesses. And then Gabriel takes a step forward, sword poised, only to be thrown back against the door and then through it, toppling onto the pavement beyond. He recovers quickly, though, jumping to his feet and charging inside, fighting some invisible force attempting to push him backwards. The sword is thrust from his hands, but the archangel does not go back for it. Instead he pushes onwards, and once he is but a mere two feet from the ex-witch he winds back and throws a punch with a force that Dean can only equate to getting hit by a semi. Or two. The Darkness barely flinches, and when it turns back to face Gabriel he is repelled once more, this time slamming into a wall. He tries to break free of her invisible hold, pushing with his own force, but the grip does not slacken. It’s visible in his expression, the amount of strain that he is under; his teeth are gritted, his eyes little more than slits. He begins to go limp, blood pouring from his mouth and slithering down his chin…  


There is a flash of light. Suddenly Gabriel is falling to the ground, Dean and everyone else on the ceiling tumbling with him. Everyone collapses to the floor, and as Dean struggles against the pain plaguing every inch of his body he can see that the only exception to this is not-Rowena, and -  


Claire. She’s still covered in blood, but she no longer appears to be in pain. Her eyes are sharp and clear, harboring an enormous amount of power which makes Dean shiver. She just stands there, glaring at the Darkness as the air crackles around her, and suddenly Dean puts two and two together, his mouth falling open and his heart sinking.  
“Claire…,” he hears Castiel whisper through the blood in his mouth, and Dean realizes that he must have figured it out too.  


“No,” says Gabriel climbing to his feet, but Dean isn’t certain if it is in answer to Cas’ statement, or if it is a protest. “Azrael.”


	5. Some Sunny Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["Simple Man"](https://youtu.be/4z3gkq_gWL4?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> Bonus Song (for the Dean and Cas scenes): ["So Far"](https://youtu.be/gKy8dq06zjk?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

All that Claire Novak can feel is a crippling sense of pain. It wracks her body in waves, and each time it ebbs even just a little bit it comes crashing back down with fresh intensity. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to keep the tears in and the images of bloodshed out.  


It had been futile, but she had tried to fight it. Despite Castiel’s protests she had stepped forward with the Grigori sword, only to be thrust backwards and into a wall with the terrible cracking of bones. _Her_ bones.  


Pandemonium had descended. Castiel had jumped forward, his face alight with a murderous desire and a fierce protectiveness which Claire had only witnessed once, back in that final battle with the Grigori. And for a moment, watching Castiel fight, Claire feels as if she has a father again, someone who can fight for her and hold her and brush away her tears when it’s all over, tell her everything will be okay. She realizes through the pain that she wants that so fucking desperately, and that almost hurts more.  


Castiel is swept off of his feet and pinned to the ceiling beside Claire. He looks to her, panic in his eyes, before his own body is contorted in pain. Claire watches in helpless horror as the angel bleeds out from a thousand invisible lacerations, and it is the last thing she sees as her own pain cuts out her vision. Crowley is already on the ceiling out cold, and it doesn’t take long for his hellhounds to be torn to shreds with a series of tortured howls. And then there is silence.  


Forever and a day later she thinks that she can hear the door bursting open and Gabriel’s bravado. There is another _bump_ as something hits the ceiling to her right, and then another. She tries to open her eyes, but finds that she can’t. Her limbs begin to feel numb, the pain strangely distant…  


That’s when she hears the voice. It begins as an indistinct whisper, tugging at the edges of her fraying mind. Even then she can sense its power, enormous and old, terribly old.  


_Let me in,_ it calls to her, growing in volume and persistence. It is jarringly androgynous.  


_Who are you?_ asks Claire silently, a struggle to even think the words.  


_My name is Azrael,_ replies the voice, and despite its urgency it is exceedingly gentle. _I am the Angel of Death._  


What little remains of Claire goes cold, filling with a fresh layer of primal fear. _Are you here to take me?_  


_Yes. I require a vessel._  


The edge of her panic is already dulling, along with the rest of her remaining senses. Soon she will be gone anyways, and she’ll certainly be no good then.  


_Will you help my friends?_  


_Yes._  


Claire hesitates, a million different thoughts running through her head. She hasn’t got long, she knows that. Already she can feel herself slipping away, and God, she wants nothing more right now than to just go to sleep and not wake up. That’s the worst part about dying: after a certain point you start to want it.  


_You can have my body, if you promise me one thing._  


The voice is cautious. _And what would that be?_  


_Watch out for Castiel. And Dean. Watch out for all of them._  


There is a pause as Azrael considers it, and finally the reply rings through her head. _Yes._  


Claire fights the alternating layers of numbness and pain, taking a breath in preparation for what she is about to do. _Then my answer is yes,_ her mind screams. _Take me._  


Suddenly she is filled with a sensation that she has experienced only once before in her life, more than five years ago in an abandoned warehouse. The night that she lost her father forever. She can feel the overwhelming power of the angel cramming itself inside of her, fitting itself impossibly into the compact corners of her tiny human body. Her senses come streaking back to her, and the pain returns, but it is strangely muted, displaced. She opens her eyes, and through the Angel of Death, she can see.

 

|

 

Castiel struggles against the pain which covers every inch of his body. His vision is pulsing, but through it he can see Claire, except it isn’t Claire anymore. It’s Death.  


He feels something break, something that isn’t a part of him physically, and perhaps isn’t even a part of his grace. Whatever it is, it is throbbing in agony, cracking and bleeding. He has failed the Novak family in so many ways, ways he could never even begin to make up for. But keeping Claire safe was his final promise to Jimmy, and then to Amelia as she had died at the end of the Grigori’s blade in order to save her daughter. And now all of that is gone with a flash of light and the blink of an eye.  


_Claire…_  


Something is said, an exchange between the Darkness and Azrael, but Castiel doesn’t hear it. He’s so focused on the infant chasm in his heart that it isn’t until he hears the inhuman shriek, sees the blinding light, that he pulls himself back to the present. All of the sudden the pain is gone, and he’s able to see straight again. Slowly he struggles to his feet, the others around him doing the same. But he doesn’t look to them, doesn’t even inspect himself. His eyes do not move once from Claire’s human shell.  


“Azrael,” acknowledges Gabriel with a respectful tip of the head. With bored eyes Death turns to face him, but after a moment with Claire’s head she nods back. She turns to face the Winchesters.  


“Dean. I was tempted to let you die, but I made a promise.” Hearing Death’s inflections on Claire’s tongue is enough to evoke the strangely human desire to vomit within Castiel. He only barely keeps down the bile scorching his throat.  


Dean has the good sense to say nothing, instead fixing Azrael with a steady gaze. Sam seems to diminish at his side, despite his impressive height. The Angel of Death’s eyes brush briefly over a shell-shocked Annie, and then come to rest upon Castiel. A fire burns in his heart, and he clenches his fists at his sides.  


“Hello Castiel.” Castiel cannot bring himself to return the greeting.  


“What have you done with her?” he asks, although he is all too aware of the machinations of the process himself. Azrael tilts her head back, Claire’s hair falling around her shoulders. Her body is still covered in dry blood, and when those blue eyes search Castiel’s he is chilled to find an alien depth to them.  


“I required a vessel. And unless you wanted me to let you all die, something I otherwise would have been content to do, it was necessary that I take one.”  


The shock and despair roiling within Castiel are pushed aside, replaced by fury. “You get out of her _now_ ,” he rumbles, his voice low and dangerous as he dares to take a step forwards. Azrael looks briefly down to Castiel’s feet, and then back up.  


“You would do well to remember who you are conversing with, Castiel,” Death sighs. She turns on her heel, Claire’s boots scuffing the floor. “This vessel’s bloodline is strong. If you truly wish for me to leave, I urge you to consider the fact that it might take me a very long time to find another vessel as suitable as this one.” Claire’s haunting blue eyes turn back to him, and Castiel can’t help but shudder. “As I understand, time is not something you have in abundance, especially considering the casualties.”  


Castiel wants desperately to protest this logic, but he knows better than to disagree. Death is right.  


At that moment the screeching of tires can be heard from the small parking lot. Jody and Linda appear in the doorway, the light of the streetlamp flickering behind them and sporadically illuminating their panicked faces.  


“Jesus Christ,” breathes Mrs. Tran, taking in the damage. Beside her, Jody enters the room in a daze, her vision jumping from figure to battered and bloodied figure. “Annie, Claire,” she breathes urgently, pulling the two girls into her arms. Annie’s eyes are wide and terrified as she silently looks over Jody’s shoulder to the Angel of Death currently inhabiting the other girl’s body. After a moment, Jody appears to notice the stiffness in Claire’s motions and her failure to reciprocate the sentiment, because she pulls away to look at her. “Claire?” she murmurs.  


It is Sam who steps forward, placing a gentle hand on Jody’s shoulder. She turns to face him, her eyes darting rapidly back and forth as a new wave of terror manifests. “It isn’t Claire,” whispers the younger Winchester, and Castiel can see the tears crystalizing in the sheriff’s eyes.  


“What do you mean?” she says softly, attempting to control the wobble her voice.  


Sam pulls her into an embrace, and while she does not protest, she in no way relaxes. Her breath comes in shuddering gasps, and the body that is no longer Claire’s watches in distant fascination. As Jody presses back tears, Sam whispers into her short brown hair, “This is Azrael.”

 

|

 

Azrael may have healed their physical wounds, but the aches are far from gone. Jody’s eyes are red-rimmed, and hours later she’s murmuring under her breath, “I shouldn’t have left.” Sam sits with her, because he’s always been the more consoling of the two remaining Winchesters. Dean knows loss, he knows how all-encompassing and treacherous it can be. But he’s never been any good at dealing with it in himself, let alone other people.  


Mrs. Tran is with Annie, trying to calm the still shell-shocked girl, and for some reason Crowley is off with the two archangels. At least if he tries to do something he’ll be zapped into a pile of dust or something. This thought brings Dean the smallest comfort.  


Castiel has disappeared off to somewhere by himself, and Dean finds him outside sitting with his back against the wall. Gabriel had used some of his angel mojo to mask the damage to the motel, and brainwashed the tenants into thinking the racket had been nothing more than some very violent sex (the pervert).  


Castiel’s trench coat is pooled out around him, and his knees are drawn up to his chest. His arms hang limply at his sides and his head is resting against the wall, his eyes staring off into the distance. Gabriel had also fixed the streetlamp, so now the angel’s face is illuminated in a gentle bronze light, warm and forgiving unlike any of this situation. Dean sits down beside him, and Castiel does not stir, but Dean can see him relax just a little bit.  


For a while they just sit like that, the Hunter and the fallen angel beneath an unchanging black sky. There’s something prolific about it, thinks Dean. This is the sort of shit Chuck would have loved to write. For a second he’s surprised that the prophet has turned up in his thoughts. He shakes it away.  


When Castiel does speak, it startles Dean a bit. Carefully he turns his attention to him. “I’ve failed,” whispers Castiel, and Dean’s heart clenches. Castiel continues. “I have failed Claire. I’ve failed Jimmy and Amelia. I’ve failed you countless times, and Heaven and Earth and humanity. Why do I keep coming back?” He turns to Dean, and his eyes are cold and distraught in a way that makes Dean feel psychically ill. “What even is the point of me anymore?”  


That’s it. That’s the final straw. “Shut up,” whispers Dean, trying to sound commanding. Instead he sounds more pleading than anything, but he runs with it anyway. Locking his gaze with Cas’ he continues, the words rushing out of him before he can think about it enough to stop himself. “You’ve fucked up. We all have. It’s part of free will, that we make mistakes. But this, _this_ isn’t on you. Claire said ‘yes.’ It was _her_ choice, _her_ decision.” Castiel is shaking his head, and goddamn it, there are actually tears in his eyes. The angel’s always had the sort of kicked puppy look about him, but Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him cry, even as he beat the living hell out of him back at the Bunker. It just makes Dean all the more desperate to get the words out, before Castiel can protest. He places his hands firmly on the angel’s shoulders, grounding him.  


“You are not worthless, do you hear me? You have saved this planet and my sorry ass more times than I can count. And you know what, Cas?” - he swallows the lump in his throat - “You are the best goddamn friend I have ever had.”  


Cas just looks to him for a moment, his impossibly blue eyes wide and almost reverential. Dean hasn’t seen that expression on him in such a long time, not since they first met when Castiel was still aligned with Heaven. It’s faith, he resigns. “I love you,” whispers the angel in a small voice.  


Wait, what? Dean feels like he has whiplash, but he hasn’t moved an inch within the space before and after the words. His heart is racing in his chest, his mind clouding with something he can’t name. Castiel just looks to him, his expression terrified as if he has just realized the gravity of what he has said and wishes he could take it back before it comes back to bite him.  


Before Dean even knows what he’s doing he’s leaning in and kissing Cas. His lips are warm and soft, and Dean can feel the stubble of his cheek brushing against his skin. At first the angel is surprised, as registered in his wide blue eyes. But then he melts into it, bringing a warm and steady hand up to cup Dean’s cheek. The kiss is gentle and sweet, nothing like the violent, sexual mauling that Dean is so used to. When it’s over he pulls away only enough to rest his forehead against Cas’, to feel the angel’s eyelashes fluttering in contentment.  


It was only a kiss, but Dean is struggling to breathe as it dawns on him just what the last six years have meant. Jesus Christ, he’s been too stupid to realize what it was between them, that _this_ was what he had wanted all along. Suddenly he’s reevaluating it all: Castiel’s rebellion, Purgatory, the Fall. It’s all there, so plain and neat and painfully obvious.  


“How long?” he whispers into Cas’ skin.  


“Long enough.”  


It’s only with great hesitation that Dean removes himself from Cas, but the angel does not resist. He brings his hands back down to his sides, and Dean can still feel the ghost of Castiel’s fingers, his lips against his skin. Already he misses his heat.  


“Come on,” he says, standing up and offering a hand to Castiel. He knows that the angel is perfectly capable of standing on his own, but still Cas lets him hoist him up. “We’d better get back to the others.”  


“Yes,” Cas agrees resignedly, his fingers lingering in Dean’s. They stand like that for a while, together in the darkness, before they actually make it back inside.

 

* * *

 

Jody announces that she’s leaving an hour later. “I need to bring Annie someplace else,” she explains to them with lowered eyes. “We just… we can’t be here right now.”  


Sam nods at Dean’s side. “We understand. Of course, Jody.”  


Half an hour after that they are packed and ready to leave. She offers a somber goodbye to the room as Annie walks out the door and brings her things into the car. Jody lingers in the doorframe, her eyes tracing the occupants of the room. Briefly they settle on the figure of Claire, who is sitting silently in the back the room, observing. Quickly they dart back to the Winchesters. “If you need anything at all, call,” she demands.  


“We will,” offers Sam. Jody smiles and turns to leave, but stops. Once more her eyes drift back to Claire’s shape.  


“Take care of her,” she whispers, the words barely making it out. And then she is gone.  


After a moment, Sam closes the newly-repaired door. His hand stays on the metal of the doorknob for a few seconds, and then he releases it, turning to face the room. Dean tries to imagine that they look as epic as the Avengers after some cosmic battle or something, sans the awesome Iron Man suit. He has a feeling, though, that they look a little more beaten than the stylish superheroes. Maybe more like the Guardians of the Galaxy then…  


“What do we do now?” Sam says, and that is so not the pep talk they needed.  


“The Darkness will be back,” states Azrael through Claire’s lips. Dean fights back a wave of intense hatred, the memories of his friends pinned defenseless to the ceiling still fresh in his mind. “It came here because it sensed me. Now that it knows that I am here, and Gabriel as well, it will correctly infer our motives to unite the other archangels. At this very moment it will be closing off the entrances to Hell.”  


At the mention of Hell, everyone turns to Crowley. The demon looks between them with unnaturally tired eyes, clasping his hands together in his lap. He sighs. “She’s already sealed off my regular entrances. If we could find some other way in I could probably get you to the Cage.”  


A thought occurs to Dean, and he straightens as it blooms in his head. “What about the Devil’s Gate in Wyoming?”  


Sam shakes his head. “The Gate’s been sealed for a while. I tried to open it back when…” When Dean went to Hell. It doesn’t need to be said aloud.  


Crowley perks at this, breaking the silence. “If the Gate was already sealed by other means the Darkness might not have bothered to close it itself. If that’s the case I could probably get it open.”  


“We’ll have to drive, though,” announces Gabriel, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re still being blocked. Flying’s not an option.”  


Dean grunts, agreeing in reluctance. He isn’t sure how much longer he can handle being in a car with the former Trickster. “All right then, ladies. Let’s bug out.”

 

|

 

The blinding light of the archangel sends the Darkness tumbling all of the way back to Sioux Falls. Its wounds heal quickly enough, nonetheless it feels drained. Azrael is older than the others, even if only fractionally so. Gabriel isn’t as strong, but with two archangels it is enough to make the Darkness wary.  


But it did gain invaluable information from the experience. Such as the fact that the small battalion is attempting to gather the other archangels. It takes the Darkness a whole hour to find the hell gates and seal them, but it is done before the small group can so much as make a move towards one. The Darkness allows a small smile of satisfaction to spread across its host’s lips: all is well enough. Time to get down to business. _Real_ business.  


The seeds have already spread across the continents, germinating inside the souls of the its carriers. Even now it has begun to stretch across North America, although it is still not visible enough to capture the full attention of the public. All that is required is a catalyst.  


The Darkness chooses a town in Illinois; population: 10,000.  


It is a relatively normal day, or at least as normal as a day can be when the sky has been black for a week. People commute to work using their winding network of roads. Planes fly in and out of a nearby airport, people watch the morning news over breakfast, and radio talk show hosts begin their programs. Strangers filter in and out of the town all of the time, so it really isn’t anything particularly fascinating when someone unfamiliar walks into town, wandering about a few stores before moving on to the next establishment. Why should anyone look twice? There is nothing strange about him, except the slightest residue of sulfur…  


And then it happens.  


People take up their instruments in makeshift weapons. They turn to their neighbors, the people they had loved and protected, and they exchange blows. In those places where people are alone, they turn upon themselves. Entire diners, classrooms, businesses tear each other apart, cars running off roads and screams filling the air. Within the hour it is over, and the entire town is deadly quiet.  


It can still feel its counterparts, the Croatoans moving silently and swiftly across the land. The Darkness falls backwards, exhausted from the expenditure. Its vessel, the witch, is already starting crumble, only barely containing the ancient entity. It will likely not be able to repeat a massacre of that scale, but fortunately it will not have to. The air and soil saturates with the poison leaking from the fresh corpses, seeping into the ground and dissolving the foundations of the city. The lone stranger walks out of the town casually, moving on to the next village as if nothing had even happened. Silently, the infection continues to spread.

 

|

 

They’re halfway through Iowa when all of the sudden Gabriel doubles over in the back seat of the car. He had been fine mere seconds ago, and then without warning he’s gritting his teeth, curling in on himself as he hisses in pain.  


“What, what is it?” asks Dean in a panicked voice, glancing quickly between the rearview mirror and the road. They’re on the Interstate, and there are cars and tractor trailers zooming all around him in a flurry.  


Gabriel waves a hand in the air. “Stop the car,” he groans between breaths. “Pull over, _now_!”  


By what can only be dumb luck there is a rest area up ahead. Dean puts on his blinker, switching lanes to pull off, and Mrs. Tran follows behind in the van. The Impala has barely reached a stop before Gabriel thrusts open the door, stumbling out into the grass and vomiting on the side of the road. What the hell…?  


Crowley and Castiel step out of the car as well to witness the scene, looks of confusion plastered to their faces. When Dean casts Cas a glance the angel’s eyes are wide, practically screaming, _I have no idea._  


Azrael pushes out of the van with matched urgency to Gabriel’s, Claire’s body doubling over and retching on the ground as Sam and Mrs. Tran look on in horror.  


“What is happening?” shouts Linda, her voice shrill. Azrael is still laying there, hands on the ground and knees tucked beneath her. It’s Gabriel who recovers first, and when he looks up he is pale and sweaty, and if that alone doesn’t share the shit out of Dean then he doesn’t know what will.  


“The radio,” he gasps, wiping away spittle. “Turn it on! Turn on the radio.”  


Doubling back to the car, Dean switches from the cassette tape to FM, and his heart nearly stops as he listens to the emergency broadcast.  


“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, speaking the words for everyone else. Azrael stumbles to her (or his, Dean doesn’t even care anymore) feet, swiping tangled blonde hair from her face.  


“An entire town. And that’s just a warning.” Her eyes are red, and so are Gabriel’s. Azrael storms back to the van on unsteady feet, and the car door is already open from her escape. “Croatoan is in North America now, and the more people are infected, the more quickly it will spread. We have to get to that Devil’s Gate, _now_.” No one argues.

Dean turns off the radio, but he doesn’t put the music back on. Even Crowley’s quiet as they drive; apparently slaughtering a whole city isn’t the King of Hell’s cup of tea, and Dean certainly isn’t going to put it past him. Every now and then he catches Castiel’s eye, and the angel’s expression is pained in a way that makes Dean’s stomach turn even more.  


“So the Mark,” says Dean softly, testing the air. Gabriel’s eyes flick upwards in the rearview mirror, acknowledging the words. “It was just a preview of what it kept locked away. A hint.”  


Gabriel looks to the side, out the window at the cars and the indistinct landscape rushing by. “Yes.” Nothing more and nothing less.  


A few more minutes pass in silence. And then it hits him. Suddenly his eyes are stinging, and he feels the overwhelming desire to vomit his guts out.  


Christ. Fucking hell, damn it, shit. Fuck!  


The deaths of those people, everything fucking one of them, that’s on him. He’d accepted the Mark to kill Abaddon, thinking that he was doing the right thing. He should have never taken the Mark to begin with, but even then Sam and the others should have just left him to rot, because this, _this_ is the price.  


Dean’s life isn’t worth this. No single person’s is.  


He pushes the feelings back down inside of him, because if he lets it continue he’s just going to break down and that’s not going to be any good for anything. These are the consequences, and he has to learn to live with them.

 

* * *

 

They stop at a motel when Dean reaches the point that he can no longer keep his eyes open. Mrs. Tran’s still wide awake, as are the angels, but Sam’s conked out in the back of Linda’s van, and Castiel practically has to lead Dean inside. Even Crowley’s bleary-eyed, which Dean hadn’t thought possible, but getting bloodlet by the creature that was once his mother probably takes it out of a guy.  


Gabriel and Azrael take a separate room with Crowley, staying awake to play through the ritual necessary to open the hell gate (without the Colt they’re going to have to find another way). Mrs. Tran insists on sharing Sam and Dean’s room (“I’m not going to waste the money. I slept in a storage shed or a year, I think I’ll be okay in the chair.”), and for some odd reason Castiel takes his own room. Everyone’s too exhausted to question it, so they take their keys, depart for their respective rooms, and proceed to either scheme or pass out.  


Except that Dean can’t sleep. He makes Linda take the one bed, despite her protests, and Sam take the other, so he’s left with the chair, but that’s not the problem. The problem is that as he stares into the room’s own darkness all he can see are the faces of everyone he’s inadvertently killed, their screams and cries and pleads. He hears the radio broadcast on loop, and he imagines that he’s seeing the town, empty and blood-covered. He squeezes his eyes shut, but it won’t stop.  


Finally at 2:30 in the morning he gets up from his bed and walks outside, quietly shutting the door behind him so as not to wake his sleeping companions. He makes his way over to Cas’ room, standing outside for a while in the glow of the green-blue storm light hanging just over the door. He raises his hands to rap on the wood, but stops with his hand in mid-air, curled into an empty fist. His blood pounds in his ears as he memorizes the contours of the number 7 resting upon the peeling red paint, wondering if he’ll ever actually get on with it and knock. He takes a breath, and closing his eyes, gentling raps.  


There’s a rustling from inside, something like papers being shuffled about, and then Cas is at the door with questioning eyes and tousled hair. His coat is off, Dean remarks, thrown over the back of the chair, and he’s wearing his suit and rumpled tie, which for Castiel is practically naked.  


“Dean,” he says. The word is so soft on his tongue, so gentle. Dean closes his eyes; he doesn’t deserve anyone to say his name like that, and he certainly doesn’t deserve Cas.  


Pursing his lips, Castiel holds the door open wider, gesturing for Dean to come inside. He hesitates for a moment, but then crosses the threshold, Cas closing the door behind him.  


Every light in the room is on, and on the sole bed there is a nest of papers scrambled about with Castiel’s slanting scrawl on them. “What’s all this?” asks Dean as he motions to the papers, dancing around the issues plaguing his mind. Castiel swallows, looking over to the pile with downcast eyes.  


“The final chapter of the Winchester Gospel,” he says solemnly. “Chuck isn’t here to write it, so I figured someone had to. So that one day, the world will know.”  


Dean’s feeling dizzy, his stomach churning. “The final chapter, huh?” he says with as much evenness as he can muster. He stares into Castiel’s profound eyes. “That doesn’t sound very optimistic.” Cas forces the world’s saddest smile, his blue eyes like storm clouds.  


“I’m just being a realist.”  


They stand there just looking at each other for a few seconds, until finally Cas gestures to the bed. “Please, sit down.” Dean’s too tired to protest, and a moment later he feels the mattress dip as Castiel sits beside him.  


“I’ve never known you to come to talk for no reason, and I can only presume that this time is no exception. What is it, Dean?”  


Dean’s mind sputters for a few moments, trying to find the right words like a congested faucet straining to spit out water. And then, for one of the only times in his life, Dean Winchester opens up.  


“It’s my fault, Cas,” says Dean, and suddenly his throat is very dry and scratchy. “All of those people who died, what happened in that town. If I hadn’t been so stupid and taken the Mark none of this would have happened. All of those people would still be alive.”  


Castiel ventures to put an arm around Dean’s shoulder, and Dean doesn’t resist, practically melting into the touch. He feels so starved, so pathetic. He doesn’t deserve comfort, but he can’t seem to deprive himself of it…  


“I should have died a long time ago.”  


Castiel stiffens, and he turns to look down at Dean with those sky blue eyes. Dean’s already almost forgotten what a blue sky looks like, and he thinks this is probably the closest thing he’ll see to it for the rest of his sorry life.  


“You are the world’s biggest hypocrite, Dean Winchester,” scolds Cas, disapproval lacing his words. “ _We_ made the decision to remove the Mark, not you. The Darkness killed those people, not you. And the most irksome thing about you, the only thing that I _absolutely hate_ is that you _still_ don’t think that you deserve to be saved.”  


Cas leans in closer to Dean, his face only inches from him so that Dean can feel his hot breath brushing against the skin of his face. He can’t fight it any longer, and as he closes the space and kisses Cas, he remembers it. He remembers it _all_.  


It starts out soft and chaste, just a gentle peck of the lips, and that alone is enough to electrocute Dean. God, he’s never wanted anyone like this, and to think it’s always been there, hidden in plain sight…  


The kiss deepens, and he can feel Cas’ tongue entangling with his, roaming about and exploring his mouth. He gently bites Cas’ bottom lip, and suddenly Cas’ hands are cupping Dean’s face, angling him for better purchase. Dean runs his hands through the angel’s ruffled dark hair, feels it beneath his fingers like silk. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard now he’s afraid it might burst. They sink backwards on the bed, papers fluttering about them like stray feathers, and as Cas moves on top of him, Dean is back in the Pit. He is broken and bloodied and so far from human, but there is a blinding white light hovering just above him. He shouldn’t be able to even look at it, the intensity of it alone enough to blind him. But he looks onwards, and by some miracle it appears soft and warm and welcoming; his broken soul aches for it. As the two of them tangle on the bed, clothes shedding layer by layer, Dean can feel strong arms on him; they are lifting him upwards from the darkest depths of hell, towards the surface that he had almost forgotten about.  


Castiel’s hands roam is body, his lips against his skin, and it’s like Dean can barely breathe. If he looks close enough in the darkness he can almost see the faint outline of enormous black wings, as he had in Hell.

 

* * *

 

It’s early in the morning. On a normal day the cobalt wave of dawn would be sweeping across the sky, banishing the darkness. But it isn’t a normal day, and no one’s seen sunlight for quite some time now. So Dean and Cas lie there in shadow, limbs entangled and panting as they bask in the afterglow.  


Dean feels safe like this, his bare skin against Castiel, and he isn’t ashamed to admit it. He’d always known he was attracted to men as well as women, but it’s something he had rarely ever explored. He lived in constant fear of John Winchester, of his scorn, his disappointment if he had found out. It’s not like they had a home for his dad to kick him out of, but there were other forms of punishment which would suffice.  


Dean was a coward. He couldn’t bring himself to face it.  


But John is gone, and the fucking world is coming to an end, again. Dean knows that he’s expendable, and he figures he’s on his ninth life anyway. He isn’t going to hide it anymore. He doesn’t deserve it, but he wants his last memories to be meaningful.  


He wants Castiel to remember him when he’s gone.  


In the bed, Dean pivots his head so that it is resting in the crook of Cas’ neck, and he can feel him shudder at the contact. He can hear the gentle beat of the Castiel’s heart inside his chest, and he supposes that that answers his earlier question about angels having a pulse. It’s peaceful, comforting. Dean thinks for a long while after that. The words he wants so badly to say, they shouldn’t be so difficult. Dean may not be much for sharing feelings, but there are some things that can’t go fucking unsaid, especially in the face of Armageddon. He swallows.  


“I wasn’t messing around, Cas,” he whispers into the angel’s neck. Castiel opens his eyes at this, bringing his arm wrapped around Dean’s waist to rest steady around his shoulder. Dean soaks it in, the contact. God, he never wants this to end. But it will. Because everything good in his life always does. He continues.  


“This… _us_ … I want it. I’m not playing anything here, I just want you to know that.”  


Cas is silent as he observes the words, staring up at the featureless motel ceiling with those deep blue eyes. Dean’s heart is racing again, and God he doesn’t want to fuck this up.  


“I love you too, Cas,” he whispers. Cas pulls him tighter, and Dean closes his eyes.  


“Good.”

 

|

 

In Sioux Falls it’s the middle of the night. The massacre had occurred a meager eighteen hours ago, and already the gears are turning. The government has quarantined the zone, confirming the fratricide to be the result of Croatoan as the virus continues to spread. Except this time, they’re calling it biological warfare. The nation bristles at the thought, turning to its neighbors in the east with accusing fingers and fear in their eyes. Politicians argue and speculate while roads, towns, entire cities are blockaded and cut off. America had feared the disease from the beginning, but now that it has infested their soil, they are inconsolable. It shouldn’t take long for the rest to deteriorate.  


The skin is beginning to peel away from its vessel, like that of a burn victim. It cannot feel pain, but nonetheless the development is inconvenient. The witch is strong, powerful in way that few beings on this planet are. The likelihood of finding another suitable shell is nil. All it can do is expand its influence through the virus and maintain its host as best as it can.  


The Darkness feels the presence of the other being before it can hear its voice. Even then it is just a pull at the back of its mind, the faintest of whispers…  


The Darkness unblocks the barrier it has erected, just for a moment; enough for the other being to fly. Suddenly the archangel is standing in the back of the room, the arms of the girl she has taken hanging stiffly at her sides.  


“Hello, Azrael,” greets the Darkness. The Angel of Death tilts her head almost imperceptibly, the slightest acknowledgement of the greeting. “I trust you are here to convince us not to take this territory.”  


“That is partially correct,” responds the archangel, her piercing blue eyes penetrating the veil of the night. “I can offer you that this world - this _universe_ \- is something worth preserving. But that conflicts the very nature of your existence, and I am henceforth aware of the futility of that argument.”  


Pivoting to look directly into the archangel’s eyes, the Darkness takes a step toward her. Azrael only watches. “Azrael, you know us better than any other being, including your God. And we know _you_. You see, we follow two very similar principles. You are the bringer of Death, the End of those who live and breathe and walk and carry out the most elementary of functions. You hold dominion over all things living.” The Darkness sighs, and the sound is empty, like the howl of wind through a chasm. The archangel’s wings may be tucked away in the Aether, but they are clear to the ancient entity. It can see Death’s deep indigo feathers shudder at the sound, even as the body she wears remains impassive. “We are also bringers of the End: the End of everything.”  


Azrael tilts her head at this, and there is a strange and uncharacteristic air of curiosity to her. Almost as if she is trying to comprehend, but just can’t quite. “I do not understand,” she begins. “Why?”  


The Darkness turns on its heel, the witch’s shoes clicking against the groaning floorboards. The entire house seems to shiver, the charred drapes covering the blown windows flapping in a suddenly-present wind. “We are a primal force, in the most polar of manners to you and your kind. We exist purely for decomposing, for dissolving and decaying. You and every other creature in existence is programed with a sense of self-preservation. When you came along it was a violation; we had found equilibrium within ourselves, and suddenly the balance was tipped. This universe was ours long before any of you existed, before your _God_ existed.” The muscles in Azrael’s face tighten, and the Darkness spits out the final words. _“And we want it back.”_  


Before Azrael can draw her sword, the Darkness has closed the connection, sending her stumbling back to wherever it was she came from.

 

|

 

Sam very clearly notices Dean coming out of Castiel’s room in the morning, but he says nothing, just casts Dean a knowing look. Much to the older Winchester’s relief, his younger brother seems almost… content. As if this is something he had been expecting to happen, and now it finally has. Perhaps everyone had seen it coming except Dean; it wouldn’t be the first time he was the one ignorant of his own feelings.  


“We’re leaving in ten minutes,” says Sam, passing Dean a styrofoam cup of coffee. What time is it? He looks down to the cheap watch he picked up just before Hibbing: 7:32 AM. Had he really slept that long? He must have gone back to sleep after talking to Castiel…  


Sam purses his lips as Dean takes a sip, and Dean knows that look all too well. “What is it?”  


“Azrael. He — _she_ said she went to speak with the Darkness last night.”  


Dean almost spits out the bitter coffee in his mouth, instead making an effort to swallow it in one large gulp. “Come again?”  


Looking off to the side, Sam’s ridiculous L’Oréal hair flaps about his face in the cool breeze. “She went to talk to it. Said she recognized the location: Bobby’s house.”  


Bobby’s house. Anger floods Dean’s senses for a moment at the injustice of it all, that the charred home of a man who died fighting monsters should be misused by one.  


“So once we pop Lucifer and Michael from the Cage…”  


“Looks like we’re going to Bobby’s”  


Dean nods, the heat of the coffee warming his palms through the styrofoam. When he finally speaks again, his voice is raw and scratchy. “Any more word on the massacre?”  


Sam looks down to his styrofoam cup, frowning gravely at the lid. “They’re blaming it on some sort of viral attack. There are heated accusations; we’re practically teetering on the brink of war with the Russian Federation.”  


“Have there been…?” The question lingers unfinished, but Sam seems to understand anyway. He sighs.  


“The outbreak’s spread throughout Illinois. No more massacres, but it’s Croatoan for sure. They’re trying to contain it, but there have been cases in Texas and Florida too.”  


Dean lets out a long breath, trying to redirect his mind from the news. He has to remind himself, he’s doing what he can, here and now. He can hear movement beyond the door as the others pack their few belongings; mostly hunting supplies, guns and knives.  


“So,” says Sam stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking out across the crumbling parking lot. Dean knows that tone, too, and his stomach drops. His brother’s either about to get emotional or try to have a heart-to-heart, if not both. Dean braces himself…  


“You and Cas are a thing now?”  


Dean blinks once. And then twice. Really, Sam is going to choose _now_ …  


“Yeah. We are. You got a problem with it?”  


Sam turns to face Dean with his patented bitchface, eyebrows climbing up to his Tarzan hairline like caterpillars. “Really?” Dean shrugs. _“Please,”_ continues Sam. “Everyone’s known for like, the last three years at least. Bobby never thought you would-”  


“Wait!” Dean chokes, his expression of surprise reaching what he would imagine to be cartoonish proportions. “ _Bobby_ even saw it coming?”  


Sam actually snorts, taking a sip of his latte or whatever. The little shit.  


“Dean, you have the emotional self-awareness of, like, a potato.”  


“Bitch.”  


“Jerk.”  


Azrael chooses this moment to emerge from the room, casting the two brothers a look of undisguised intolerance. The look actually isn’t far from something Claire would have given him, Dean thinks for a moment, before the guilt washes over him. “Care to expand your vocabulary, boys?” mocks Death, tossing a bag of weapons into the trunk of the Impala. _Dean’s_ Impala. “It’s primordial.”  


“My heart is breaking.” Azrael gives him the death stare. Which is really quite ironic.  


“All right chuckleheads.” Gabriel emerges from the room, followed by Crowley. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He claps mock-enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together, and then turns to face the oldest Winchester. “Oh, and Dean, we totally heard you having sex last night.”  


Dean cannot be responsible for whatever expression of mortification is plastered to his face.

 

|

 

It’s pouring rain in Chicago. Strangely enough, there is very little traffic leading into the city, although the roadways leading out are severely congested. The cars stretch in lines miles long, wipers working furiously to keep away the rain which plagues them much like the mysterious darkness in the sky above. But it just keeps coming back.  


In one of the cars, a woman is sitting alone, praying that the line will move again soon. There is nothing particularly special about this woman. No family, no friends, no connections. She’s a university student, actually, not that it matters at the moment. She’s leaving Chicago, and she doesn’t know if or when she’s coming back.  


She’s afraid of Croatoan. Most of the people in the line of cars are, and that’s why they’ve packed their bags, grabbed their loved ones, and prepared to leave. What with the massacre occurring within the state borders, and rumors of its spread beyond, there is no room for lack of caution. They need to get out while they still can, before they cordon of the city.  


So the woman, Tracy, sits in her car and listens to the radio, swearing under her breath as they move only a quarter mile or so every hour. It’s not just the congestion causing them to move at this rate, she’s certain, but she can’t see far enough ahead to understand what exactly it is that’s holding up the line. She tightens her grip around the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white and her red nail polish glinting in the light of the head beams.  


The radio begins to crackle, and then the music cuts out completely. Tracy frowns, moving to turn the dial, but then the tone of the emergency broadcast takes over. Her heart races, her mind swirling as she prepares for the worst at the sound of the caustic racket. _Not now. She needs to get out…_  


The message confirms the woman’s fears that the city is being quarantined. Her fellow motorists must be gripped by a similar panic, because suddenly car horns start honking, headlights flashing. At first she thinks it’s just a demonstration of their disapproval, but then several vehicles attempt to worm their way through spaces, out of the designated lanes. She can see something through the dark, just on the horizon, some kind of movement. It isn’t just the motion of cars she’s seeing as she peers through the rain, but something… organic. _What the hell?_  


Her breathing becomes rapid, competing only with her rapid heart rate. Tracy goes to turn the wheel as the figures approach, not more than four or five of them, but that’s more than enough. They move in violent, lurching motions, not quite like the zombies in movies but not totally dissimilar. They move quickly, and with preternatural strength, their actions violent and erratic. She can see them now, their faces, and they look just like normal people, except they’re covered in blood, and there’s an emptiness in their eyes. Car windows shatter beneath the impact of the infected, more beeping coming from the convoy, and now she can make out the isolated screams of a woman somewhere in the line of cars. Tracy locks the doors, burrowing into her seat as the infected approach, praying that they won’t see her.  


She isn’t so lucky. There is a smashing of glass, a clawing of hands, and teeth on flesh, and Tracy screams.


	6. Outside In The Cold Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["All Along the Watchtower"](https://youtu.be/TLV4_xaYynY?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

Dean turns up the radio all of the way, Jimi Hendrix blasting through the speakers until everyone except him is cringing. Azrael folds in on herself in the back seat, scowling out the window, and Dean wonders if it’s possible to suffocate from bad vibes. Castiel casts Dean an annoyed look, to which he only shrugs, but Gabriel appears strangely undisturbed, his head tilted backwards in the semblance of sleep. Dean definitely notices the archangel tapping his fingers against his thigh.  


Okay, so that’s one point for Douchebag Number Two. There are many competitors for the spot of Number One.  


They arrive at the small Wyoming cemetery in record time. Solemnly, Dean cuts the Impala’s engine, his fingers lingering on the ignition for a few seconds before he removes the keys and steps out. The angels occupying the car with him do the same in a rustle of clothing that is vaguely reminiscent of wings.  


Sam, Linda, and Crowley step out of the van, the two humans looking on the verge of murder themselves; Dean can only imagine what Crowley has been putting them through as they traversed the last few states.  


“All right, darlings,” declares the King of Hell, stepping forward onto the dying brown grass. His shiny black shoes and suit look out of place, but Crowley appears unbothered by this. He rubs his hands together in anticipation, surveying the terrain. “Let’s get started.”

 

 

* * *

 

The ritual requires many of the same ingredients as most other spells (some weirdass herbs, a couple of bones, maybe a crystal), or at least up until the end. The last few components include the grace of a fallen angel, the blood of a higher tier demon, and the blood of a soul escaped from Hell. Fortunately for the Winchesters and co., they have all of those things on hand.  


Carefully, Castiel removes Metatron’s bottled grace from his pocket, directing it into the bowl with great caution. Dean follows by slicing his palm open, an all too familiar process for him. He only grunts dully at the pain, quickly bandaging it with a handkerchief once he’s bled what he deems enough. With an irritated sigh, Crowley cuts open his own hand, waiting impatiently for the blood to drain. When he’s done he doesn’t bother bandaging the hand, but instead picks up the bowl and carries it over to the space directly in front of the Gate.  


“Might want to stand back, kiddies,” he drawls. The two Winchesters, Mrs. Tran, and Castiel all take a step backwards. Gabriel and Azrael remain where they are, neutral expressions dictating their features. Crowley begins the ritual, the Latin words falling from his tongue like ashes left behind by a dying fire. And when he’s done everything goes silent. They wait. And they wait.  


“Um,” interjects Dean, holding up a hand. As much as he would like to see Crowley fail miserably at something, this is the _worst_ time for that to happen. “Is it supposed -?”  


Suddenly there is the awful groaning of metal as the doors thrust open, the gaping mouth of the Gate greeting them. The wind alone is enough to make Dean stagger backwards, Castiel’s hand raising protectively to the small of his back to catch him. The air shrieks with the pained howls of countless spirits, Dean’s nose filling with sulfur and brimstone and all of that other shit that Hell’s supposed to smell like. Looks like Crowley’s DMV-esque amendments have gone wayside since his disappearance…  


“All right,” announces Crowley, setting the bowl on the ground amongst the sigils and taking a step towards the gaping hole with relative disinterest. “I picked the lock, now who’s coming with?” He arches his eyebrows in anticipation, scanning the small group.  


Dean and Sam step forward with almost no hesitation, Castiel close behind them, but Dean holds out his hand to block his path. “Not this time Cas…”  


Castiel tilts his head in simultaneous perplex and vexation. “Dean…”  


Gabriel sighs off to the side, removing his hands from where they had been in his jacket pockets a moment ago. “You’re gonna want an archangel in there. Azrael and Castiel can stay here with Mrs. Tran, keep an eye on the Gate from this side. But I’ll go.” Dean silently remarks on how Gabriel refers to the woman as _Mrs. Tran_ , just like the rest of them. The lady demands respect, and it’s certainly more than due.  


Crowley takes the first step forwards and into the chasm. “All right, Team,” he mocks from the blackness beyond. Solemnly the progression follows behind, descending into the pits of Hell. Dean squeezes Castiel’s hand once before falling into line, and the last thing that he sees is the sky blue of the angel’s eyes.

 

|

 

Azrael stands alone in the graveyard with the Hunter and the rebel angel, her eyes scanning the cold air. Linda Tran is silent as she stares out into the emptiness from the perimeter of the graveyard. She is familiar with the woman’s story; once one has had the misfortune of tangling with the Winchesters they tend to keep an eye on them afterward, if only to avoid them. She is aware of what happened to her son, the prophet, and of her torture at the hands of the demon Crowley. Azrael knows a fighter when she sees one, and arguably unlike the Winchesters, Linda Tran is not stupid. She may be new to the hunting game, but she is intelligent, resourceful, and most of all, diligent. Death feels a pang of respect for the woman, something which speaks great volumes considering that she rarely feels anything other than distaste for humans.  


It’s been ten minutes since the others crossed through the Gates, and considering how time is compressed in Hell, they should be returning any minute now. Azrael surveys the still graveyard once more.  


Something’s wrong. It hits her like a tidal wave, drowning all other senses, the absolute feeling of concentrated _wrongness_. The sensation is strong enough to pierce even the dull senses of humanity, because Linda suddenly goes tense, backing towards Azrael with her hand on Claire’s Grigori sword. Castiel is at their side too, appearing from the other end of the graveyard with alarm riddling his expression.  


“What is that?” Linda asks, not tearing her eyes away from the blackness of the perimeter. She is right not to look away, because suddenly the dark is alive, curdling towards them in a great cloud.  


Azrael’s blade slips into her hand, and in another dimension she can feel her wings arching behind her, wrapping around the tiny human to protect her.  


“The Darkness,” she replies simply.

 

|

 

Dean can already feel the bile creeping up into his throat, and with each step he takes he feels closer to retching. He can see the blood, feel the flesh being stripped from his skin all over again… He has to remind himself, he isn’t trapped, not this time. He _will_ get out.  


Crowley and Gabriel lead the way, a heavenly light (for lack of a better phrase) erupting from Gabriel’s drawn sword. The tunnel is a winding catacomb, much like the ones underneath Paris that they always base horror movies off of. The smell of decay fills Dean’s nostrils. God, it’s so hot down here, and so dark. He feels like he’s being crushed beneath an expansive black drape, the air heavy and hard to breathe.  


Suddenly they emerge from the catacombs, and what Dean is left staring at leaves him without words. Before him is literally a pit, the deepest chasm he has ever seen. He can practically feel it in the faint upwards rush of air, the enormity of the gorge. “Welcome to the backyard, boys,” remarks Crowley, crossing his arms neatly behind his back. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Cage.”  


Dean swallows, eyeing the crevice. He thinks of all of those times in movies when the main character will drop a stone into a hole, counting the time it takes to hit the bottom in order to measure its depth. Dean highly doubts that he’d even be able to hear the rock reach the ground if he were to drop one, even if it was a fucking boulder. “And how are we getting down there?” Gabriel and Crowley exchange a look before returning their attention to the Winchesters. Suddenly Gabriel’s wings are flaring out from his back, and this time they aren’t just shadows. They’re actual wings, large and brown mottled, expanding ten feet on either side of the archangel, and Dean would be beyond stubborn not to admit that they’re glorious. Gabriel pivots towards Sam, holding out his arm. Crowley does the same, and Dean just stares.  


“Well?” Crowley arches his eyebrows dryly. After a moment of hesitation Dean takes his arm, realizing then what they are about to do. There is a sudden displacement of air as they teleport, but before they go, Dean can discern the outline of Gabriel’s large wings catching the draft of the chasm.  


When they reappear the atmosphere is heavy and stale, and Dean doesn’t need Crowley to tell him that they are deep underground (or at least underground by Hell’s standards). Dean takes a large breath of the stagnant air, and his tiny motions echo about the emptiness. Because that’s what it is. Empty. The Cage is not an actual cage, but a void.  
The Hunter and the demon stand in tentative silence, and Dean can feel Crowley’s apprehension radiating off of him. Even the King of Hell is afraid to be here, in the darkest corners of his domain.  


It feels like hours before Dean can hear the beating of Gabriel’s wings, and who knows, maybe it really has been hours. Any other day and it would have been almost comical to see his Sasquatch of a brother clinging to a short Archangel of the Lord (the gay jokes he could make with that; that is, if he weren’t the one currently in a homosexual relationship). But it isn’t comical, and they’re someplace very dark and very cold and very far away from everything familiar to him.  


But that isn’t completely true, Dean thinks with a shudder. It’s _too_ familiar for comfort, the constant feeling of despair which fills the air. Dean spent forty years here, and he remembers every second of it.  


The light of Gabriel’s sword illuminates his face, casting shadows over his features. Dean can’t see even the slightest trace of the Trickster in him. Right now with his enormous wings and the deadly look in his eyes he is every bit the Warrior of God as one would expect.  


“This way.” Crowley directs them somewhere off to the left, although how the demon knows the correct direction must be beyond human sensory; everything looks the same to him, an endless expanse of blackness.  


They follow him through the dark, careful to remain within Gabriel’s ring of light, until at last Dean can make out a shape in the distance. He doesn’t say anything, afraid to disrupt the ocean of silence roaring in his ears, but he’s certain that the others have seen it too, because they stand a little more rigidly now. At first Dean doesn’t know what it is, but the closer they draw the more he can make out. The shape is faintly human, crumpled motionless upon the ground where he is unable to tell if it is still alive. Great white wings sprout from its back, stained an ashen grey by dust and dried blood; it doesn’t look like it has moved for centuries. They skirt around the body until they can see its face…  


Lucifer. Nick’s features are unmistakable, even beneath the grime coating his skin, and for a moment it strikes Dean as odd that the fallen angel should have chosen to project his grace in the form of his discarded shell. Pushing aside the thought, Dean shivers, because this _thing_ is what almost took his brother from him and tried to tear apart the world in the process. This is Satan, broken and alone…  


Lucifer opens his eyes. Everyone takes a sudden step backwards, with the exception of Gabriel, who stands there watching with vetted eyes.  


“Brother,” gasps Lucifer, and the sound is horrendous, the chasm embodied. The fallen angel looks like stone, his entire body unmoving apart from his lips and his pale, unseeing eyes. “You’re alive.”  


“Yes,” replies Gabriel, and he sounds infinitely sad. “I am here.” Gabriel kneels at Lucifer’s side, his wings drawing in tight against his back. His right hand hovers above the shoulder of the angel, lightly fluttering against his skin. Lucifer closes his eyes, tears of joy streaming from them at the contact and clearing away trenches in the grime.  


If Dean didn’t feel like he was going to puke before, he does now, because damn it, he doesn’t want to feel sorry for the monster responsible for so much tragedy in his life. He doesn’t want to need his help. He glances away, and he can see Crowley doing the same thing. But Sam looks on, and Dean can see concentrated hatred burning behind his sage green eyes.  


“Where is Michael?” asks Gabriel, and Dean can tell from the sound of shuffling that he is helping him to his feet.  


“Here. He’s… here…”  


Gabriel lifts his sword, tilting it so that the light projects the furthest that it can from his position. That’s when a second shape a little ways away from Dean comes into focus, another body crumpled to the ground. Adam’s body. The brother they failed to save. The one they never really tried.  


The two semi-conscious archangels limp past them, Lucifer’s arm wrapped around Gabriel’s shoulder as he struggles to walk. When they reach Adam’s body on the ground they crouch before it, and the process repeats. When Michael speaks it is with Adam’s voice, although now it is stiff and inhuman.  


“Why are you here, Brother?” Michael’s words drift over to the Winchesters and Crowley, and they are weary beyond measurement.  


“We are needed in battle,” Gabriel replies with a gentleness Dean had not thought him to be capable of. Gabriel looks up, and Dean catches the glint of his green eyes from the shadows; there is sorrow in them. “The Darkness has returned.”

 

|

 

Castiel’s first instinct is to protect Claire, to step in front of her and shield her with his body. But then he remembers that this is not Claire standing beside him, but Death incarnate. Azrael grips her sword, as Castiel does his, and the two angels and the Hunter stare down the black cloud hurtling towards them.  


The Darkness meets them, and suddenly Castiel’s senses are blocked. He cannot see or move or talk, and his ears are filled with the roar of the thing as it rolls over him. Finally he discovers the strength to raise his arms, and he attempts to cut through the thick black smoke to no avail. He moves about blindly, struggling to find his companions amidst the confusion. Linda is yelling somewhere several meters behind him. He tries to reach her, and he can hear the ringing of the Grigori sword, but then everything goes silent. The Darkness dissipates.  


Rowena’s form stands before them in the cemetery, her fingers curled around Linda Tran’s neck. The sword is slipping from her hands, and the life from her eyes as she tries to breathe but can’t…  


_“Stop.”_ The word is not yelled, nevertheless it booms throughout the graveyard, an incomprehensible force behind it. Azrael steps forward wearing Claire’s body, her knuckles tight around her own blade. The Darkness tilts its head, but obeys, allowing Mrs. Tran to fall to the ground in a gasping heap.  


“Azrael,” addresses the Darkness, the name cold on its lips. The Angel of Death grits her teeth.  


“What you’re trying to do, freeing the archangels - it won’t work.”  


“Oh?” Azrael tilts her head, Claire’s wavy blonde hair falling about her shoulders and the leather of her jacket. “And why is that?”  


The Darkness registers no emotion, but there is the slightest twitch of the skin around Rowena’s eyes. “Because we will be sealing the Gate.”  


Suddenly Mrs. Tran grabs the sword from where it is lying on the ground, plunging it into Rowena’s stomach as she jumps to her feet. The Darkness doubles over in the body, its mouth open in shock as it stares down at the blade inside of it. But then the surprise clears, and calmly it straightens itself, wrenching the sword from its gut using both hands. Linda Tran’s face falls, dread shrouding her features, and she turns to run.  


The graveyard erupts into motion. Mrs. Tran is sprinting away, and Castiel is rushing forwards to shield her. The Darkness raises its hands, directing coils of black smoke towards the Hunter, and Azrael is lunging towards her.  


And then Linda does a curious thing. She stops running and turns to face the black cloud, as if accepting the likelihood of her imminent death. She raises her sword in front of her face, splitting her features in two as the cloud overtakes her, and despite his effort Castiel is too late. He watches helplessly as she is consumed by the smoke, and he is still several meters away. In one final attempt, he shifts his wings into this dimension, feeling the chilled air stroke his feathers as he propels himself forwards. He raises his blade, readying to strike…

 

|

 

“You intend to free us?” questions Michael. He is standing now, and Dean can see that Adam’s clothes are in tatters, but still intact in the most integral parts. Of the two imprisoned archangels, he is strangely the more vocal one, and he’s just as much of a prick as Dean remembers him. He bites his lip. _Happy thoughts…_  


Gabriel nods tersely. “Yes.”  


“And will we be returned here when the battle is over?” It’s Lucifer who speaks this time, and Dean wants nothing more than to punch him in the face, and then maybe put Alistair’s torture skills to good use.  


“That depends; will you help us?”  


Michael blinks, and Lucifer crosses his arms over Nick’s torn t-shirt. “Yes,” they reply in succession. Lucifer continues. “I presume that you will have terms to this agreement, as will I. So go ahead, lay it on me.”  


Dean steps forward, speaking with as much bravado as he can muster, even though his hands are trembling at his sides. “For starters, no deep frying the world. We’re saving the human race, not destroying it.”  


Lucifer’s eyes flick off to the side in contemplation. “Well enough,” he shrugs.  


“And no hurting anyone on our team either,” adds Sam, and there is acid singeing his words. “If you so much as touch any of them-”  


“Yes, yes, you’ll rip me a new one.” Lucifer waves his hands in the air in trepidation. “Go on.”  


“You will release Adam.”  


“Done. Anything else?”  


It’s Gabriel who delivers the next condition. “If we succeed, you will have a choice,” he says, stepping closer to the ring of light. His wings arch imperiously behind him, casting shadows in the obsidian air. “After the final battle you may choose to either return here, or to return to Heaven under _my_ command.”  


Dean feels short for breath, sweat forming on his brow and his heart hurtling against his ribcage. “Are you _crazy_?” he hisses, leaning in close to Gabriel. “After everything they’ve done, you want to give them a free pass?”  


Gabriel is about the same height as Dean, maybe even a little shorter. But when he turns to face him he is looking down, and being the subject of his gaze is like being pinned beneath a tractor trailer. “You, Dean, should know that Heaven can be just as much of a punishment as Hell.”  


Dean’s jaw slackens, and he just doesn’t know what to say to that. The guy’s got a point. He turns back to Heaven’s most unwanted archangels. There is a long pause.  


“Are those your conditions?” asks Michael, his clear eyes jumping between the representatives of Team Free Will.  


“Yes,” confirms Gabriel.  


“Then I agree.”  


“As do I.” Lucifer tilts his head to the other side, like he’s analyzing a slide beneath some sort of microscope. _Here it comes…_ “Now we have some conditions of our own. For starters, the guarantee that you will not try to kill us.”  


“The license to commandeer our own garrisons,” states Michael.  


Lucifer smiles maliciously, and that alone is enough to make Dean feel uneasy. “And the right to inhabit our true vessels.”  


Dean’s heart practically stops. Of course he had seen this coming from a mile away, known that it would happen. But he hadn’t wanted to accept it. And now here it is, staring him in the face. What had Lucifer said to him all of that time ago in the Zachariah’s Croatoan-ravaged universe? _“No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up… here.”_  


Sometimes sacrifices need to be made. And this is Dean’s fault anyway, Dean fucked up. So he’s doing what everyone always tells him, and he’s cleaning up his mess.  


“Okay,” he whispers lowly so that no one can hear to quiver to his voice.  


Sam looks like he’s just witnessed Dean grow a second head. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open in an ‘o’, and he’s doing that thing he’s always done since he was little when he’d get agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Dean, you can’t be serious.”  


“Oh come on Sammy!” Dean turns to face his brother and there is this furious stinging in his eyes, and his throat feels raw. Every part of him aches. “You knew this would happen! It’s what we were born for isn’t it? Might as well use it to fix some of our mistakes.”  


Sam stares for a minute longer, and then bites his lip and turns to the expectant archangels. “Will we get our bodies back once it’s over?”  


Michael and Lucifer seem to tacitly consider it. With cold eyes, Michael replies, “If there’s anything left, then yes, you may have them.”  


Sam swallows. Matching Dean’s tone he says, “Then… then yes.”  


Crowley clears his throat. “Um, boys, you might want to hurry this up…”  


“Something’s happening at the Gate.” Gabriel tilts his head to the side as if he’s listening. The mottled feathers on his wings bristle, and they coil in close to his body.  


“We need to do this _now_ ,” says Michael with a hint of urgency to his voice as he steps forward. There is a rustling sound far above, the faintest whisper of the wind, or something else. Dean looks down from the black air to the figure of his half-brother. And then suddenly Adam’s eyes go unfocused, the ancient light of the archangel leaving them as the body slumps forward. The illumination of Michael’s grace is almost too bright to look at as it pours from his mouth, and Dean wants to back away but he knows that he can’t. Suddenly there is a fire burning inside of him, more intense then the scorching torment he had known in Hell or the fear in Purgatory. Michael’s grace is like staring into the Sun; incomprehensibly big and all-consuming. He feels it fill every fiber of his body, his mind pushed to the back of his own skull…  


And then it stops. He opens his eyes, but it isn’t him opening them, it’s Michael, and he’s seeing through the archangel. He can feel the power coursing through his veins, buzzing at his fingertips. The strangest thing, but at the same time it is all eerily familiar, is the sensation of his wings. They stretch out behind him, large and and black and powerful and agile. He can fly.  


Everything seems so much smaller now, so microscopic. So unimportant…  


_Focus. Don’t lose yourself, Dean._  


Dean/Michael looks over to Sam at his side, and again it isn’t quite Sam. He can actually see the pulsing of Lucifer’s grace beneath his skin, the energy of a nuclear reactor and then some crammed inside of his little brother. The expression on his face isn’t at all familiar. There’s a cruelty to it now, something which had never existed behind Sam’s eyes. It makes Dean shudder, wherever he’s tucked away inside of Michael. Lucifer spreads his impressive white wings.  


Michael turns to Gabriel and Crowley, and he says with Dean’s mouth, “We must go now.” That terrible whispering sound is back, and it’s louder. Michael’s thoughts swim through Dean’s head, and he finds the answer he had suspected but feared: the Darkness.  


Gabriel looks him up and down, and then without another word turns and disappears in a flurry of wingbeats. Crowley stays a moment longer, looking to Dean with a cagey expression that he can’t quite decipher, but then he’s gone too. Michael stoops and collects the unconscious Adam in his arms, so small and fragile. Dean had broken after only forty years down here. He can’t imagine the horrors this kid has gone through in longer than that, nor does he want to.  


Casting a look back to Lucifer, Michael thrusts off from the ground. And holy hell, the sensation of flying, of _his own wings_ , has got to be one of the best feelings in the world. He closes his eyes in unison with Michael for a moment, if only to forget for such a short time as the wind ruffles his hair and his feathers. But then the moment’s gone, and he’s still hurtling upwards from the Pit with Michael’s renewed strength emanating from his body.  


The whispering gets louder, and Dean/Michael braces himself to meet the Darkness. Still cradling Adam in one arm, he draws his sword, the heavenly light doing little to pierce the gloom. And then he’s there, and the tendrils of the Darkness are trying to strangle him, to drag him down and pin him there. Dean cuts through it with his sword, and with each thrash the cloud fights back, cuts at his skin like a thousand tiny daggers. He pushes onwards, reminded of his task by the weight of Adam against him.  


Is this how Castiel felt dragging his soul from Hell?  


They’re almost there. Dean can see the faintly glowing outline of the door, the patch of slightly brighter grey painting its perimeter. He can hear Lucifer behind him, and the Darkness he had just cut through is rushing up at him, trying to drag him back down. His wings beat harder, his vision fading so that all he can see is the Gate. He’s almost there…  


Michael bursts through the door and into the cool air of the cemetery, where he collapses onto the ground in an exhausted heap. Adam rolls gently from his arms, still unconscious but breathing shallowly. Lucifer lands at his side, his enormous white wings collapsing around him.  


Something’s wrong. Everything’s too quiet, and as Dean/Michael looks up he can see why. Dean’s screaming inside, but he’s trapped in his own skin, his shouts killed before they can even reach his throat.  


A large black cloud like a swarm of insects is rushing towards Mrs. Tran, who is wielding Claire’s Grigori sword futilely. The swarm envelops her, and suddenly Castiel is plunging towards it too, and Dean wants nothing more than to pull him back, away from danger, but Michael won’t let him.  


At the very outskirts of the graveyard Azrael is running towards Rowena’s animated corpse, ready to attack. With a fluid motion the Darkness raises its arms, and more black smoke shoots up from the ground in tendrils, wrapping itself around Azrael’s limbs and pinning her down.  


Michael pushes off of the ground and leaps into action, partially of his own will and partially of Dean’s. He can feel his wings beating powerfully behind him, working to propel him forward into the swirling black mass.  


Everything is quiet inside the cloud, calm, and it’s like being in the eye of the storm. He draws Michael’s sword from out of thin air, the illumination of the blade doing nothing to illuminate the smothering blackness of the swarm. Dean fights Michael’s control, managing to call out. “Cas! Linda!”  


There’s an awful sound to his left, something primal like the dying shrieks of an animal. He flies towards it, cutting through the darkness, and -  


No. _No._ Linda Tran is crouched on the ground, slumped over the Grigori sword as the blackness swirls around her. There is blood all over, and as her head tilts back, limp like that of a doll, he can see that she is bleeding from the eyes and ears too. But still she is struggling forwards with gritted teeth, fighting through the cloud when all logic says that she should be on the ground bleeding to death right now. She pushes through the dark, and through it all Rowena’s shape becomes visible. Linda Tran pulls back, ready to strike…  


With the slightest of motions, the Darkness waves Rowena’s hands in the air, and Linda Tran’s neck snaps. Dean tries to call out, but Michael kills the words in his throat. He watches in mute horror as the prophet’s mother falls to the dirt, her body no longer inhabited by the fierce spirit she had possessed. There is no light in her eyes, only emptiness.  


The Darkness turns to Michael, and it can _see_ him, because right then and there it fucking _smiles_. And then it is gone. Rowena’s body has vanished, and the cloud dissipates, and Michael is left standing there in an empty cemetery, the only evidence of life being his own breathing, Adam unconscious on the ground, and Linda Tran’s fresh corpse.

 

|

 

One moment, Castiel is fighting his way through a black swarm towards Linda Tran. The next, he is someplace very far away and very cold, an empty white tundra yawning back at him. The chill pokes through his trench coat, numbing his limbs and stinging his skin. His eyes water and sting in the cold wind as he takes in the expansive white landscape. “Linda?” he calls out, even though he knows that no one will answer. “Azrael?” He swallows, and the next word out of his mouth isn’t so much an attempt at establishing contact, but a desperate wish. “Dean?”  


No reply resounds.  


Castiel is in the middle of nowhere in a place he does not recognize. He cannot fly, cannot run, cannot hide, and he is completely alone.  


All he can do is look up to the sky and watch as the wave rushes across the inky blackness.

 

|

 

Azrael actually groans as she rolls over onto her side, a frustratingly human reaction but one which she does not bother to stifle. Her muscles ache as she slowly pushes herself to her feet, and she swipes away a clump of wet blonde hair plastered to her face.  


She is no longer in the graveyard; that much is apparent from the beginning. But as she quickly observes her surroundings she finds herself at a loss. She is standing in a hospital hallway somewhere; she’s seen enough of those in her time as she collected the souls of the ill, the dying. But never has she been here and been _seen_. There is a small crowd of nurses and doctors, even a couple of patients, whispering and pointing towards her. Azrael looks down to herself and understands why, can see the blood plastered to her skin and clothes, the sweat dampening her hair and face, and the sword dangling from her fingers.  


The Darkness has weakened her, and her vessel, the girl, is reflecting the strain. She can’t pinpoint where exactly the hospital is, but judging by the signs written in English and the accents of the people she is still in North America. She can’t fly; her wings are injured too badly, and the Darkness is blocking her anyway. She needs to get to a phone…  


Azrael takes a teetering step forward, and then feels herself falling. Fainting is a truly bizarre sensation, one which she has never experienced before. Her eyes roll back into her head, and even before she hits the ground, everything goes dark.

 

|

 

Lucifer finds himself in the middle of a city street. There is a honking sound, and he raises his hand protectively as a car swerves to avoid hitting him. He jumps to his feet, pulling himself onto the sidewalk where people are talking and pointing, but he ignores the humans; they are of no interest to him.  


Looking about, he reads the street signs and searches for clues. Everything’s in French, he realizes, and he can make out the startled conversations of the observers in pieces.  


_“Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? As-tu vu cela?”_  


_“D’où est venu cet homme?”_  


_“Est-ce qu’il est blessé?”_  


Lucifer turns to face the person nearest to him, a young man who appears equally startled by his haggard appearance as by his trick of materializing in the middle of traffic. _“Où est-ce que nous sommes?”_  


The man frowns, shaking his head. Lucifer fights the urge to snap, reminded of how touchy the human temperament can be. Come on, he just needs to know where they are…  


Lucifer repeats the question, and this time the man seems to understand. _“Marseille,”_ he chokes out.  


Brilliant. They’re in France.  


Lucifer spreads his wings, still shielded to the eyes of the humans, and prepares to fly. Nothing happens. He tries again, his frustration escalating, but he’s still blocked.  


He’s in France, and there’s no way he’s getting back to the United States without taking a plane.  


There is a strange sound somewhere faraway, and Lucifer looks about to see everyone facing upwards. He lifts his eyes to the sky and watches the wave spread.

 

|

 

As Gabriel thrusts himself against the Gate once more to no avail, he actually feels panic bubbling within him. He tries again, and again, and again, and his wings are starting to ache but he has to get out. He isn’t meant to be here…  


Sensing a presence off to his side, Gabriel turns around. Crowley’s standing there at the edge of the Pit, hands in his pockets and appearing tranquil as ever. It frustrates Gabriel, and maybe he can partly understand why the Winchesters are always upset with him for seeming flippant in times of distress.  


“The Gate’s sealed,” says Crowley nonchalantly. “We won’t be getting out that way.”  


Gabriel’s wings curl in tightly against his back, and he crosses his arms in an attempt to appear unconcerned. “We need to get back out there. That bitch is probably combating them now, and if I’m going to fight in this battle I sure as hell am not going to watch us lose.”  


This time it’s Crowley who crosses his arms. “Hell is right, dear,” he sighs breathily. “You forget that we’re in my domain now.”  


There is a distant rumble as the demons of Hell rise to the call of their king.

 

|

 

Michael just stands there, coolly surveying the cemetery as Dean surrenders to blind panic, still trapped inside of his own skin.  


_Oh God, oh shit…_ Linda’s dead, another innocent life taken under the banner of the Winchesters. Adam’s passed out on the ground, and everyone else is gone, just vanished. He is alone with all of the energy of a nuclear reactor buzzing beneath his skin, and he is still completely helpless.  


He tries to fly to Sioux Falls, and then Chicago, but he can’t, and now he understands what Gabriel had meant when the Darkness was blocking him. He draws his wings in close to him, like a protective shield.  


_Michael?_ he tries, hoping to god that the angel will at least answer him. After a moment he does, and the voice is very different than he would have expected it; it’s his voice, reflected back at him.  


_I’m here._  


_What’s happening? What can we do?_  


Michael takes a moment to reply, and when he does he sounds exhausted. _The Darkness scattered the others. I can’t get an exact pinpoint on where they are, but Lucifer’s somewhere in Europe, Azrael is on the East Coast, and Castiel is in the Arctic._  


_Fantastic. Just fantastic. What about Gabriel and Crowley?_  


Dean feels Michael frowning with his lips, and if that alone isn’t enough to give him the creeps, then nothing is. _They are still somewhere in Hell. I suspect that they shall be fine._  


Never did Dean think that Hell would be the safest place on the list of options.  


_Linda_ , he thinks slowly, and Michael casts his vision to the mangled corpse of Mrs. Tran on the ground. Dean feels ill. _Can you heal her?_  


His lips tighten, and Michael’s response is laced with something akin to regret. _I am sorry. She died at the hands of the Darkness. I am unable to heal her._  


Dean fights back the overwhelming urge to ask Michael what exactly he is good for. As much as he hates to admit it, pissing off the archangel currently possessing his body is not a very wise course of action.  


_The Darkness_ , begins Michael, and Dean can feel him sifting through his memories, piecing together postulations. _It has returned to Sioux Falls. Right now it is likely attempting to catalyze the spread of Croatoan using a spell from the Book of the Damned. The ritual itself required many ingredients, and I suspect the Darkness has been gathering them since its arrival…_  


Dread shoots through Dean, saturating his blood and making it feel as if he is lacking oxygen. _Can we stop it?_  


Michael’s reply is blunt. _No._  


_All right_ , thinks Dean, trying to seem in control of his faculties. _We need to drop Adam off someplace where he can get patched up, and then we need to find the others. Can you help me do that?_  


_Yes_ , replies Michael without hesitation. _I am being blocked from Heaven right now, but if I can get a message through we may be able to erect an army._  


_An army, huh?_ muses Dean as a wave traverses the black sky above. _That might be helpful._

Heaven is quick to hear Michael’s calls, and the Host rejoices in the return of its leader. He can hear their voices in his head, thousands of them calling out in hope, confusion. Fear. Some of them fear him.  


Hannah meets him in the Green Room. It’s just how Dean remembers it: white and stuffy with too many classical statues, like something out of the end of that movie Sam likes, _2001: A Space Odyssey_. Hannah appears to be wearing a male vessel this time, a thin, scrawny guy with dark hair and equally dark eyes. “Michael,” she greets, and her voice is warm as it comes from the man’s mouth.  


“Hello, Hannah. You have served Heaven well.”  


Hannah bows her head respectfully. “I have simply tried to do what I thought best for our brothers and sisters in the light of all that has happened.”  


“And I commend you,” replies the archangel with Dean’s lips. “You will make a fine leader of your garrison.”  


A frown manifests on the face Hannah wears, her dark eyes clouding. “Garrison? Heaven has done away with the old system. We are no longer soldiers.”  


Michael steadies his eyes on the angel. He spreads his enormous wings behind him, and hers draw closer to her borrowed body. “I’m afraid that you will have to be, once more. We have one final battle to fight.”

 

|

 

Since its arrival, the Darkness has been preparing for this moment, gathering components and tweaking conditions to maximize the intended effect. The spread of Croatoan virus was just the beginning, and now that the Darkness has all that it needs to complete the spell, the virus will complete its spread much more quickly than before.  


It starts as a ripple in the dark sky above. All around the globe people look upwards to the blackness which they had become accustomed to. It no longer startles them, the absence of light, but this change does. The ripple spreads quickly, encompassing the Earth and then dissolving. Billions of people watch in dreadful anticipation.  


Blackness descends from the sky, like some sort of large sheet. People turn to run, darting for the nearest buildings, but there are those unfortunate enough to be trapped by the smoke. It smothers them, makes its way inside of them and lays siege to their brains, their hearts, their souls. Cities all over the world become very still, and suddenly the Darkness does not have one body, but millions. It opens its eyes - all of them - and it sees.


	7. Beyond This Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["Carry On Wayward Son"](https://youtu.be/2X_2IdybTV0?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr) I mean, it _is_ a Supernatural fic. ;)  
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

Azrael walks down the black street towards the glow of the neon sign, the hood of her jacket drawn up over her head. She’s aware that she is wearing the body of an 18-year-old girl while walking down a dark alley alone. She is aware of there are Croatoans following her. She is aware of the flickering lights, and the fact that any moment now she will be in complete darkness.  


The archangel turns around and draws her sword, the intense blue glow illuminating the hidden crevices of the alleyway. The Croats hiss at the light, distorting the faces of the people they had once been. They rush for her, and Azrael wields the weapon above her, slicing through skin and bone and sinew. One of the creatures digs into her skin, drawing fresh blood, and she knows that she will not be able to heal it with her grace; in this respect she is just as vulnerable as the humans.  


She feels herself sinking under the force of the Croats, and her wings thrash out helplessly in a final attempt to free herself. There are too many of them. They’re going to break through to the humans she is protecting, take them too. They can’t afford-  


The pressure lessens a bit as the Croats redirect their attention. Azrael can hear the baying of hellhounds, and as she looks beyond she can make out their faint outline, in addition to a dozen angels and demons. She pushes herself to her feet, taking the opportunity to start swinging again.  


The garrison cleans out the remaining Croats in a matter of minutes, and once more the tiny stronghold is safe. Azrael can hear sirens in the distance, the signal of someone less fortunate, but she ignores it. Crowley steps forward from the crowd, patting the nearest hellhound on its grotesque head. “Azrael,” he greets. The Angel of Death simply flicks her eyes over him in disinterest. “So much for a thanks,” he remarks, scratching the hellhound behind its ear, much to the creature’s contentment.  


“I thought you were with Gabriel,” Death grumbles, turning to scan the alley one last time. In her peripheral vision, Crowley shrugs.  


“Gabe thought you could use some help, so he sent me and some of the boys on over.” He gestures to the haggard troupe of angels and demons, as well as the bastard dogs.  


“Where is Gabriel?” asks Azrael dryly, refusing to acknowledge Crowley’s statement.  


The King of Hell narrows his eyes. “He’s in the Middle East right now, holding off a large faction of Croats trying to leak into a Purgatory gate. Don’t suppose that you could return the favor…”  


Azrael turns, tilting her head and flashing a dangerous semi-smile. “I’ve got information,” she says. “About the Darkness.”

 

 

|

 

Snow falls from the sky above, big white lacy flakes temporarily abating the permanent blackness of the sky. It should be beautiful, poetic, but it’s not. It feels like a violation; what right does the Earth have to carry on with the seasons as if nothing has changed? Everything is different, and there’s no way it’s ever going to be like it was.   


This place is too much like the ravaged world Zachariah had shown him. Again, Lucifer had been right. There’s no avoiding some things, and the Croatoans are one of them. But it doesn’t matter how many Croats you kill. The Darkness is like the Hydra; as long as Rowena’s still out there, hidden, they just keep on coming.   


Dean watches the snow from the rooftop of a long-abandoned building. The cold causes the hairs on his arms to stand on end, and he pulls his wings in tighter to shield himself.  


Michael’s been giving him increasingly more control lately, jumping in now only to deal with strategic matters beyond Dean’s comprehension. As time goes by it becomes harder and harder to discern himself from the archangel, more and more like they’re a singular entity. It scares the hell out of Dean. He fears that one day he may not be able to tell them apart at all.   


He is equally terrified of becoming the callous leader he had been in Zachariah’s world. A leader who would sacrifice his own friends so that he could get a chance at the winning shot. He makes a promise to himself that he won’t ever turn into that person.  


There is the familiar flapping of wings, and as Dean turns around he can see Castiel standing at his side. His expression is pensive, and the lines in his face have become deeper over the past few months. Dean can see his wings clearly now, not just the shadows like before. They’re large and ebony, like those of a raven or something equally dark and sage. Cas’ are still broken, but slowly healing; enough for him to fly short distances. In time they ought to recover completely.   


“What’s the matter?” Dean asks as Cas comes to sit beside him. What isn’t? he then thinks, but keeps the remark to himself.   


Castiel draws his knees up beneath his chin, squinting at the wasteland below, the little tufts of snow falling from the sky. “Hannah’s garrison was wiped out today. They were trying to protect a small group of survivors in Detroit, but the Croats got to them first. By the time Lucifer’s backup arrived they were already dead.”   


Dean curses under his breath, and he can feel Castiel’s hand on his back in that spot right between his wings. God, it feels good. He leans into the touch.   


Michael had never made mention of Dean’s relationship with Castiel. Dean tries not to think about the fact that the archangel is somewhere tucked away inside of him, even during his most intimate moments.   


“There is some good news, though,” murmurs Castiel, resting his head against Dean’s shoulder. Wisps of the angel’s black hair spread across the fabric of Dean’s jacket in stark contrast to the falling snow. “Azrael thinks that she might know where Rowena is.”    


Dean tenses, and he can feel the feathers of his wings bristling (the sensation will never cease to be strange to him). He turns to meet Castiel’s blue eyes, and the other angel’s expression is solemn. “How does she know?”  


Castiel pulls away from Dean, staring off into the distance as his lips draw into a tight line. “She’s been delving deeper into Croatoan territory, and there’s a spot she’s found where the population’s the least dense. She thinks that Rowena might be there.”  


“Least dense? That makes no sense, wouldn’t they want Rowena to be shielded?”  


Castiel smiles. “That’s precisely why Azrael thinks Rowena is there; you would least expect it.”  


Dean pushes himself to his feet, Castiel’s warmth leaving his body as he does so. The angel looks up to him from the ground for a moment before following. “What are we waiting for, then? We should get an attack assembled…” Dean trails off, sensing Castiel’s unease, his dark wings pulled flush against his body. “What? What’s wrong, Cas?”  


The angel bites his lip, a curious habit he must have acquired during his time as a human. “The area; it’s right in the middle of a refugee camp outside of Chicago. There’s a makeshift hospital, a school. There are _children_.”  


Dean closes his eyes tightly. “How many?” he asks in a strangled voice.  


“The population is estimated at 11,000.”  


Christ, 11,000 people. 11,000 defenseless men, women, and children, and the Darkness is using them as a shield. Dean wants nothing more than to back away, to keep saving who they can and let well-enough be. But he can’t do that. None of this is fair, but they don’t _live_ in a fair world. Dean never has. And if there’s anything he’s learned during his years as a Hunter, it’s that risks need to be taken sometimes, no matter how terrible.  


Dean turns to Castiel, who is standing with all the stillness of a statue, as if he is afraid that the slightest of movements will tip the scale. “Go get the others,” rasps the Hunter. “We need to talk.”  


Castiel nods, and in that moment he is no longer the lover, but the soldier. The wind carries the sound of wingbeats, and then he’s gone. Dean is left alone to watch the snow fall once more.

 

|

 

There is a screech somewhere off to his side. It sounds deceptively far away, but Gabriel has been a master of illusion long enough to recognize when things are not how they appear.  


The archangel navigates the darkness, the arid heat clinging to him even without the benefit of the Sun. There are no people here to protect, and for this he is the tiniest bit grateful. Adding humans to the mix would only complicate things further, and Gabriel cannot afford distractions. Right now his focus is protecting the Purgatory Gate.  


Gabriel turns a corner, entering the small building containing the Gate. A short distance away Veles is leading half of the garrison away from the target, attempting to confuse the Croats. The other half is off with Crowley, assisting Azrael back in the States. Gabriel is alone.  


The former Trickster leans his head back against the wall, catching his breath. Angels do not require sleep, but holy hell is he exhausted. What he wouldn’t give for a Snickers bar, a nice bed, and maybe a few hot -  


There is a rustling sound. Gabriel opens his eyes and unsheathes his sword, looking up into the darkness. He takes a step backwards, his wings flaring about his body protectively. On the ceiling there are maybe a hundred of them, Croats, squirming about in a singular black mass as they slink deeper into the building. They are barely human now, only the demented caricatures of their former selves as the disease continues to ravage and alter them. As the light hits them they squeal, baring fangs and pulsing back towards Gabriel. They begin to descend, and Gabriel kicks into survival mode, doing what he knows best.  


With a snap of his fingers, a wall shoots upwards from the ground, separating the Croats from himself. It won’t last long; the appendages of the Darkness have a way of dissolving magic, even that infused with angelic grace. So he makes what little time he has count, propelling himself through the narrow hallways and towards the heart of the edifice, where he knows the Gate to lie. It’s bad enough with the Darkness doing what it can to invade Heaven, Hell, and Earth. So far, the human world has taken the hardest toll. However, with Heaven still recovering from Metatron, and Hell in chaos, the infrastructure has already begun to collapse. But if the Darkness takes the fourth realm…  


Gabriel skids to a halt at the entrance to the room containing the Gate, clutching his blade all the more tightly. Several Croats have already made their way in, and the grotesque pseudo-humans are hastily attempting to unlock the entrance. They turn to face him with bloodshot eyes, the nearest two advancing.  


The archangel’s eyes harden, and he spreads his wings to their full impressive span. As the Croats move Gabriel remains still, not dodging until the last second. Pivoting around so that he is facing their backs, he draws the sword in an arc, and the Croats falter in pain, but they do not crumble to dust. They turn back around with new resolve, and damn it, the other one’s almost finished with the ritual…  


There is a blinding white light, which Gabriel instinctively moves to shield his eyes from. When the light finally fades, the afterglow still staining his vision with angry purple blotches, it’s Lucifer whom he sees before him. Sam Winchester’s body had always appeared hulking, like some sort of ungraceful skyscraper about to topple, but paired with Lucifer’s glorious white wings it is an entirely new sight, a whole new definition of _big_. Malignant fire burns in the younger Winchester’s eyes, the conflagrations of Hell.  


“This Gate will not be troubled again,” announces Lucifer, making his way over to Gabriel.  


“Thank you, Brother.” Gabriel frowns, turning towards the door, and as if he is sensing his thoughts, Lucifers says, “Your garrison is safe.” As if on cue, Veles and the ragtag battalion of angels and gods enters the building, looking a little rough around the edges but otherwise unharmed. Gabriel nods to Veles, a gesture which the god returns.  


When Gabriel turns back around, Lucifer is still there, standing quietly with his hands in his pockets and Sam Winchester’s ridiculous hair in his face. Although it seems that Michael and Dean had come to some sort of terms of agreement, Lucifer had retained primary custody over the other Winchester’s body. Gabriel would never say it out loud, but he kind of misses the kid; if nothing else, he was fun to annoy. “Where is _your_ garrison, Lucifer?”  


Lucifer looks off to the side as if he is thinking about something. “Back in France. Things are slow there lately, and there hasn’t been an attack in at least three days. They will be fine.”  


Both archangels turn their heads at the sound of wings, greeted by the sight of Castiel. Singed black feathers fall from the seraphim’s slowly healing wings, but the angel pays them no attention, his gaze instead fixing steadily upon Gabriel and Lucifer. “Your presence is requested,” he says simply, forgoing a greeting. “Azrael has information about Rowena.”  


“Information?” Gabriel steps forward, absently sheathing his sword as he narrows his eyes. “What kind of information?”  


Castiel sighs. “I think it best if you hear it from her yourselves.” And with that he disappears, the cryptic little prick.  


Gabriel rolls his eyes at the blank space formerly occupied by the angel, and then turns to Veles. “Can you hold down things here for a while?” Veles nods, and Gabriel pivots towards Lucifer, who crosses his arms over his plaid shirt. “What do you say, Brother?”  


Without another word, the two of them vanish.

 

|

 

They gather in the abandoned Milwaukee warehouse Dean’s been using as a stronghold. It’s nothing much to see. Rafters hang in places where the roof has begun to collapse, stripped copper wire and drywall litters the floors, and crumbling cement walls barely keep up the skeleton of the building. There’s a draft that runs through the large room, creating gooseflesh on Dean’s forearms, but he ignores it.  


The four archangels, plus Crowley and Castiel are gathered around a tiny wooden table, conjured courtesy of Gabriel. “So you’ve found the little skank?” drawls Crowley, twisting the question into more of a statement than anything.  


“Azrael thinks so, yeah.” Dean nods to the Angel of Death, who steps closer to the table, her lidded eyes flitting over the occupants of the room. It’s more or less a passive observation, but he’s noticed that she continues to use Claire’s dark makeup, even styling her hair every now and then, although whether or not this is some angelic preservation of cleanliness or preference he isn’t certain. He’d never brought it up, and he doesn’t dare to, because the former Horseman may look like Claire, but it sure as hell isn’t her.  


Azrael points to the map splayed down on the table, roads twisting across the different shades of grey like veins, circles and X’s bleeding from the paper in a manner similar to blood. “There’s a refugee camp right along the city borders of Chicago, one of the larger ones in the area: about 11,000 people. The population was able to grow so much because there’s the lowest concentration of Croats there, something that at first appeared as some sort of fluke considering that the Croatoans are crawling all over the rest of the state. Considering that the outbreak hit Chicago the heaviest, this contradicts the idea that maybe the land had been forgotten or forgone.” Azrael looks up from the map with her blue eyes, the same shade as Castiel’s. “I think Rowena might be somewhere in that camp, and the Darkness is using the civilians as a shield against us. Insurance, so that we won’t attack, even if we do notice.”  


Lucifer’s upper lip twitches, melting into a sadistic smile, which makes Dean want to hurl upon seeing on his brother’s face. “But we’re still going in.”  


Dean swallows, wishing for once that Michael would take over and deal with his dick of a younger sibling. “We don’t really have a choice. It’s now or never.”  


At this point Gabriel cuts in, pushing right to the point. “Do we have a plan? Or are we just charging in and hoping for the best?”  


Castiel steps up, making his presence known for the first time since the meeting began. “We’ll need to verify that Rowena is indeed at the camp. This will require subterfuge.”  


“So, are we thinking-?”  “No,” Dean interrupts Crowley, leveling the demon with his gaze. The King of Hell backs down, but he does not so much as squirm. “We’re not using Jody.”  


“Dean.” The word is soft, and as he looks to Castiel the angel’s eyes are pleading. “None of us want to, but Jody did say from the beginning that if there was anything she could do, she wanted to know. She’s already in danger as it is, what with organizing the new Hunter network. She’ll want to do this.”  


After a long pause, Dean lowers his head and swallows. He nods slowly, enough for Castiel to see. “Who will take over the Hunter network while she’s gone? We’re going to need all of the firepower we can get if things go south.”  


“Garth or Krissy should be capable of fulfilling the task in her absence. Dean.” Castiel steps closer, and Dean shifts, uncomfortably aware of their display in front of the small audience. Castiel must sense his unease, because he does not touch Dean, but instead continues speaking. “Jody is a very capable Hunter, and an intelligent woman. I am confident that she will complete the task and return safely.”  


Dean straightens up, removing his hands from where they had been resting on the table. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll let her know, but there’s still the matter of figuring out what to do after we find out if it’s Rowena or not.”  


Azrael takes the platform. “If it is her, I elect combining the garrisons with Crowley’s army. We can then divide those into four groups, one to attack the camp from each cardinal direction.”  


“Okay,” says Gabriel, “but that does nothing to assure that Rowena is eliminated. We’re going to need something more precise than that.”  


The Angel of Death narrows her eyes in vexation towards Gabriel. “If you’ll please have patience, I am approaching that point.” Her expression becomes neutral again, and she addresses the group as a whole once more. “The Darkness cannot be eliminated, this we know; all we can do is lock it back up, and the task will require all four archangels as it did before. Each archangel will commandeer a battalion, but once we reach the perimeter of the camp, we’ll depart from our garrisons. The garrisons can serve as a distraction as we close in, and from there we can proceed to combat the Darkness.”  


“You make it sound easy,” mumbles Gabriel sardonically, earning himself another glare from Azrael.  


Dean can sense the meeting drawing to an end. “All right,” he announces. “I’ll go get Jody. Go check on the garrisons, and we’ll meet back when she’s ready.” The words have barely left his mouth as the angels and the King of Hell disappear, the room echoing with wingbeats before dissolving once more into silence. Dean turns to leave himself, but he notices Castiel still standing at his side. “I’d like to come with you,” he says meekly, fists clutching the fabric of his coat sleeves. “To Jody’s.”  


There is something in the air, some sort of tension which puts Dean off, a cloudiness to Castiel’s too blue eyes. Dean tries to shake it, but he can’t quite. “All right,” he says after a moment, feeling the muscles of his wings stretch as he spreads them. Castiel does the same, and within a matter of seconds they are both gone.

 

* * *

 

Jody’s Hunter network is based out of a small town in Upstate New York, not far from John Winchester’s old storage facility. She had chosen the location because it was relatively isolated from the most heavily Croatoan infested areas and easily defendable, while still accessible to those Hunters searching for refuge. She had set up the base shortly after leaving the Winchesters in Lansing, taking Annie to a cabin which had belonged to an aunt of hers. When the second wave hit and the Croats spread, Jody took it upon herself to convert the cabin into a stronghold, guiding other Hunters to the surrounding town where they could strategize and replenish supplies. The endeavor had begun as something small and singular, but in this time of need, knowledge of the haven had reached the opposite coast, and the bleed of Hunters was steady and predictable.  


Shortly after the Darkness had scattered their group, Dean had brought Adam to Jody to recover. She had taken him in without asking questions, something for which Dean was endlessly grateful.  


The guilt was still overwhelming at times.  


Dean makes a point not to bring up Adam, although who he would discuss the boy with is beyond him. He never asks about him, and Dean wishes he could feel bad about it all, everything that's happened. All he feels is numb.  


Dean and Castiel appear just outside of the town, a little beyond the security perimeter that the Hunters had established. The last thing he wants to do is startle anyone, so silently the two men approach the outskirts on foot. As they emerge from the woods, dead leaves and snow crunching beneath their feet, he can see the guards at their posts. They’re armed with guns loaded with Devil’s Trap bullets, knives, holy water, all of the Hunter necessities. But it still wouldn’t be enough in the case of a swarm; they’d be wiped out in seconds.  


As he draws closer, Dean recognizes one of the guards, and a wave of some emotion he can’t quite name washes over him. Is it surprise? Confusion? Shame? “Hello, Cole,” he greets once they are within speaking distance, the Hunter’s gun trained on him.  


“Dean?” The man’s eyes flash with recognition as he lowers the weapon; Jody must have told the other Hunters to expect him every now and then. The suspicion subsides in Cole’s eyes, but there’s still an uneasiness there, and Dean can’t blame him. It’s not like they’ve really had the best track record together, and Dean has certainly caused the man enough grief in his time. Cole’s eyes turn to Castiel, and the Hunter furrows his brows in confusion as the angel stares back with that intense gaze of his.  


“Um, Cole, this is Cas. We’re here to see Jody.” Castiel nods his head politely, a gesture which Cole returns in reluctance, his expression still clouded with uncertainty. After a moment he steps back, shaking away his dazed look and replacing it with weariness.  


Cole looks to the other guard before turning back to Dean and Castiel. “Yeah, go on then.” There is the sound of bolts unlocking as the gates are opened, the wrought iron swinging open to clear the path to an empty paved road stretching into the town.  


The two Hunters exchange a tense nod, and then without another word Dean and Castiel set off down the road.  


The town is small, and Dean imagines that it would be picturesque if it weren’t for the black sky and makeshift barbed wire barricades encompassing the perimeter. The buildings are all only one or two stories, most of them red brick or faded stone with black pitch roofs. The windows have slitted shutters, and, and the brightly colored paint on the doors is fading, only hinting at their past glory. It’s like the town is wilting, and Dean supposes that in a way it is. The whole world is.  


Castiel follows silently at his side, their fingers brushing together every now and then in the smallest signal of reassurance. As they approach Jody’s house, Dean looks to the angel at one point, and finds him passing him one of those small, private smiles he reserves for special occasions. At the sight, the churning in Dean’s stomach decreases infinitesimally.  


They come to a halt in front of a small wooden cabin near the extremity of the town, slightly isolated from the other houses. Hell, the house reminds Dean of Jody; rich brown tones, a warm sort of feeling to it, yet isolated. At odds with the few houses surrounding it. Not quite fitting.  


Dean inhales and knocks on the front door. There is movement from inside, the sound of footsteps, and then the door is opening and Jody’s standing right there. She looks the same as always, her short hair well-conditioned, and her eyes shining with an amiability Dean has come to associate with her. She’s wearing a plaid button-up over some cargo pants and hunting boots, true to the Winchester way, and despite her lean frame, the older Winchester is perfectly aware that the sheriff is capable of taking down some scary shit.  


When she sees him, Jody’s eyes light up. “Dean,” she breathes, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face into the crook of his neck. With great delicacy, Dean brings his hands up to wrap around the woman, holding her tight. He closes his eyes, and for a moment he loses himself in the touch of one of his few remaining friends. “Hey, Jody.”  


The embrace draws out for a few seconds before Jody pulls away, holding Dean at arm’s length to inspect him. “It is…” She bites her lip. “It is you, right? Not Michael?”  


Dean nods. “Yeah, it’s me right now. He’s still inside, but this is me.”  


Jody nods. “Good.” She turns to face Castiel, another warm smile spreading across her face as she pulls him into a similar embrace. “It’s good to see you again,” she whispers.  


“You too, Jody.”  


Breaking the embrace, Jody holds the door open for them, retreating into the room beyond. “Come in,” she says, and Dean and Cas walk through the entrance.  


They step into the front hallway, and Jody leads them into the kitchen immediately to the left. The cabin must have been cozy at one point. Dean can see old photographs framed on the walls (he recognizes a younger Jody in a few of them here and there), and all sorts of knick-knacks occupy the shelves and empty spaces. Brass pots and pans hang from the ceiling, and the lights cast a soft bronze illumination over the wooden kitchen table and the maps thrown across it. On the bureau to the right, several more picture frames are pushed to the side to make room for an array of weapons: knives, guns, a machete, holy water, and a few other things that Dean can only guess at. Castiel looks about the room in similar fascination, although his eyes focus less on the weapons scattered throughout and more on the remnants of a life long lost to the convolution of this world. Reminders of better times. Castiel never had those, better times; it was only ever Heaven or the Apocalypse or the Fall or the Darkness. The thought makes Dean ache a bit in a way that isn’t entirely physical.  


Jody makes her way over to the stove where there’s a pot boiling water. “Tea, anyone?” she asks. Dean shakes his head, but Cas smiles, responding with a polite “yes please,” and Jody pours him a cup. As she passes the steaming mug to him, he gingerly begins to steep the bag. Jody pours herself her own cup, leaning against the counter to face the two. “I heard about what happened to Linda. I’m so sorry.” Dean’s chest constricts as he thinks back to the hasty Hunter’s funeral they had pulled together shortly after the confrontation in the cemetery. Before Dean can say anything, Jody segues into a new topic of conversation. “You boys wouldn’t come here if something wasn’t up.” She raises the cup to her lips and takes a sip of the scalding tea, wincing a bit at the burn of it. Carefully she sets it back onto the counter with a _clink_. “So what is it?”  


Castiel chooses now to take a drink of his tea, the little bastard. Dean licks his lips, dread welling within him, and Jody raises a suspicious brow. “You said if there was any way you could help for us to call you.”  


Jody picks up the mug and takes another sip, her gaze never moving from Dean. “Yeah. So I take it that time has come? “  


Hesitantly, Dean nods. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re still willing to do it. No one will blame you if you don’t -”  


“Just spit it out.”  


Dean flounders for a moment, but eventually finds his words. “We think we may have pinpointed Rowena at a refugee camp, and we need someone to go in and check it out without raising any alarms.”  


There’s silence for a moment. The sheriff removes her hands from where they had been resting on the mug, folding them in front of her and inspecting the grain of the wood floor. “The camp, where is it?”  


“Outside of Chicago.”  


Another moment passes, and Dean feels nauseated from the anticipation. Castiel remains equally silent, his vision intent on the steady rise of steam from his mug.  


“All right,” says Jody finally, raising her dark eyes to look directly into Dean’s. “I’ll do it. Just let me pack my things and say goodbye to Annie.”  


It’s Castiel who answers this time, nodding in understanding. “Of course, Jody. Take the time you need.”  


Jody draws her lips together into something resembling a tired smile, and then turns to place her still-steaming mug by the sink. Before she walks out of the room, she looks back to Dean, something strange in her mannerisms. She opens her mouth to say something, and then shuts it again as if thinking better of it. Finally she resolves that what she is about to say needs to be said, because she closes her eyes and goes for it. “Adam’s staying across town with Garth right now.” Dean’s heart freezes, his limbs rapidly succumbing to an invisible iciness. The guilt’s still there, burning coolly inside of him, and it’s something he knows that he won’t be able to push aside forever. “He’s been doing really well,” continues Jody. “He doesn’t really talk about Hell. I think Michael suppressed his memories. Anyways, he’s a good Hunter, just like his brothers.” Before Dean can comment, she passes into the hall and up the stairs, beyond earshot. Dean is left standing there open-mouthed with a heavy weight in his chest, Castiel carefully avoiding his eyes as he sips his tea.

 

|

 

The sounds of human life fill the air: babies crying, children laughing, adults fighting, all of the stages of life competing for a verse in the impromptu symphony. It is repugnant to the Darkness’ ears, but it does nothing to make its repulsion known. Instead, it just shifts its hood closer over the witch’s head, muffling the noise until it is tolerable. Closing its eyes, it listens through its millions of counterparts scattered across the globe. It does this often, spies on the rebels, although it never lets onto it. The witch’s projection spells come in handy every now and then…  


It catches a glimpse of conversation not far from here, and it recognizes one of the voices as Azrael. Interest perked, it listens patiently, and the more it hears the wider its smile broadens. After a minute or so more of listening, the Darkness stands up from the ground it had been sitting upon, its cloak swishing about its ankles. Once more it listens to the racket of the humans, but this time there is a sweetness to it which wasn’t there before.  


It looks like they’ll be having guests.


	8. Like Dusk To Dawn (Sing For The Tears)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["Dream On"](https://youtu.be/JAglUR-KXfQ?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
>  [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)
> 
>  
> 
> [ **ALSO WORTH NOTING - I made an SPN fan video set to "Dream On", so here you all go!** ](https://youtu.be/ZWNVHyFSvLM)

Jody only takes five minutes to pack, and ten minutes to say goodbye to Annie and fill in Garth. When she’s done, a battered duffel bag in her hands, she saunters over to Dean and Castiel with the glazed over steel of a warrior in her eyes. “All right,” she says. “I’m ready.” Castiel places two fingers on her forehead, and a moment later they are back in the abandoned warehouse. Jody blinks a few times, and Castiel realizes this is probably her first time flying Angel Express, but she seems relatively unfazed. The sheriff sets down her bag and looks about the warehouse with detached curiosity. “This is where you guys have been hiding out?”  


“Yeah.”  


Jody slides Dean a sarcastic smile, and Castiel fidgets awkwardly at his side. “You really don’t have an eye for interior design, Dean.”  


“Hey, I’ll take what the Apocalypse can spare.”  


There is the familiar flapping of wings, and when the trio turns around, the other three archangels and Crowley are standing in the cool light. Jody swallows as her eyes settle upon Claire’s body, and fresh culpability floods through Castiel. Absently, he places a hand on her shoulder, which tenses at the touch, but to her credit she doesn’t pull away.  


“All right. You guys said you needed a spy, so I’m here. Hit me up.”  


Azrael steps up to explain, and Jody lowers her gaze to the cracking cement floor, avoiding Claire’s image. Castiel wishes there was some way that he could comfort her, but he knows that there isn’t. This isn’t something that can be solved with gentle words or empty promises, and he knows it. Jody knows it too.  


When it’s all done, she looks up to the archangels, her expression devoid of emotion. “Okay.” She pulls a drab brown coat from her duffel and a hat, which she places on her head. Castiel can see something else peeking out of the bag before she zips it shut, but he isn’t able to make out what it is. “I’m ready when you are.”  


Azrael approaches Jody with two fingers outstretched, but the sheriff turns her head away before she can make contact with the skin. “I would like Castiel to take me, if you don’t mind.” Something hot spreads within his abdomen as Cas hears his name, and it dawns on him that it is dread. Why is he afraid?  


For a moment, Azrael looks the slightest bit confused. But then she backs down, making room for Castiel, who shoots Dean a puzzled look before glancing to Jody. “Are you ready?” whispers the angel. Jody nods.  


“Yes.”  


There is a displacement of air, and then the spot they had been occupying mere seconds ago is empty.

 

* * *

 

They land about a mile or so beyond the refugee camp. It had been agreed that it would be best for them to arrive outside of the site in order to attract the least attention from both the residents and the Croats.  


They’re standing in the middle of a barren forest, all of the leaves stripped bare from the trees and the first snow coating the naked branches. The angel and the sheriff take a moment to silently inspect their surroundings, soaking up this small oasis of something lovely in the seemingly ceaseless wasteland. Castiel has learned many things during his time on Earth, one of them being that beauty can exist where one least expects it. It can be found on battlegrounds, in ruins, and even in the fires of Hell; he can relate to this last example personally.  


Jody pulls her jacket closer around her, and the two of them begin their quiet trek through the snow. At first neither of them attempts conversation, which Castiel is perfectly fine with; despite his love of humanity, the art of conversation is something which he had never quite mastered. Dean had made this evident to him upon more than one occasion. However, five minutes into their traverse, Jody speaks up.  


“That duffel,” she says, and Castiel would have certainly startled had he still been human. He tilts his head curiously to her, and she continues. “It’s Claire’s stuff. Until she comes back, I think you should have it.”  


Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but the sheriff cuts him off. “Some of it was from you and Dean anyways: a cat stuffed animal, a couple of books about angels, a picture…” Jody sighs, fixing her eyes stubbornly to the white snow as her flashlight beam reflects off of it in the darkness. “I didn’t have the Grigori sword, but… yeah. Yeah.” Awkwardly she lapses into silence, Castiel joining her for a while. Slowly the brush begins to clear, the forest thinning as they reach its perimeter.  


“Thank you,” he whispers to the darkness, and Jody’s muscles tighten just a bit at the words. “And… I’m sorry.”  


“Don’t apologize, Castiel,” she says in an air of exhaustion. They leave it at that.  


Finally they reach the edge of the woods, and Jody kills the flashlight beam as they make out the lights of the makeshift camp in the distance. “I’d better go the rest of the way alone.” Castiel nods, slowly receding into the tree line.  


“Good luck, Jody,” he whispers. Jody flashes him a wry smile.  


“Don’t be so melodramatic, angel. I’ll pray to you when I’ve got the info.” She winks. “I’ve got this. Now take care of yourself.”  


For a while, Castiel just watches as Jody makes her way towards the camp. Before she can reach the entrance, he disappears.

 

 

* * *

 

Castiel finds Dean alone on top of the roof again. Dean has always been a very solitary person, despite the compassion for those which he holds so close to his heart. It breaks Castiel to see him suffer like this, as if he thinks that getting too close to others will only bring them harm. The angel supposes that given the Winchesters’ tragic past, this assumption is logical, albeit misguided.  


But Castiel is not a delicate thing. By some miracle that can only be an act of God, Dean has let Castiel in.  


Except that lately Castiel isn’t sure if he’s talking to Dean or to Michael most of the time anymore. When they’re alone together, when they kiss or make love or sit side by side or talk, there is always that growing dread, that suspicion. Even as he takes his place beside him, this thought troubles him, that he might some day lose Dean entirely to the archangel. He feels a bitterness settle within him towards his old home. Heaven had once been a sanctuary for him. It hasn’t been that way in a long time.  


His thoughts turn momentarily to Claire.  


Heaven has taken so much from him. From them all.  


To Castiel’s relief, Dean does not recoil at the touch, but instead nestles in closer. Dean takes Castles hands, intertwines their fingers as they watch the falling snow. They’re hot and soft, chasing away the bite of the cold. “Are we doing the right thing, Cas?” asks the Hunter gruffly. His eyes are closed as he rests his head against the angel’s shoulder.  


“I don’t know, Dean. But that’s part of free will, isn’t it?”  


Dean lets out a soft huff. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He pauses. “Do you remember when things were simpler?”  


Castiel sinks further into Dean, his eyes still wide open as he watches the snow trail across the black sky, tiny white streaks in the darkness. “Things were never simple, Dean. But yes, I think I know what you mean.” Back when Heaven’s orders had been absolute, and Castiel hadn’t doubted. Before he had fallen in love with Dean Winchester.  


Dean smiles against Castiel’s shoulder, and his skin is warm. “I don’t think I ever said I was sorry for that time I stabbed you in that barn.”  


Castiel actually laughs at this, and the sound must take Dean off guard, because the Hunter opens his eyes and looks up at him. “Really, Dean? Your’e going to apologize for that _now_?” Dean joins in, chuckling a bit at the thought. And it strikes Castiel, _really_ strikes him, that the past six years have been the most important in his existence spanning several millennia. Cas can remember a time long before humanity, before art and music and cars, when things really were simpler. But had they truly been better? Would he really want to go back?  


He doesn’t even have to think about his answer.  


“Do you think we’ll beat this, Cas?” asks Dean suddenly. Castiel curls his wings in tightly around the two of them, the smallest piece of comfort he can offer.  


“We have to, Dean.”  


The snow continues to fall.

 

|

 

As Jody approaches the camp, her heart thuds against her breast. She’s been scared many times in her life, even before she became a Hunter. But right here and right now, as she quite possibly walks right into the claws of the Darkness, she feels fear in its purest form, like she has only known twice before in her life. Both of those times had been with her son.  


The camp isn’t as well guarded as the Hunter safe haven, nevertheless she is greeting by the cocking of weapons, and the all too familiar sight of the barrel of a gun. “Where did you come from?” demands one of the men, the one handling the shotgun. _Now or never, Jody._  


“I-I just was wandering through the woods,” she stammers. “I got separated from my group a ways back, and I’ve been alone for days. I saw the lights of your camp.”  


“Have you been in contact with the Croats?”  


Jody shakes her head vigorously. “No. I told you, I just got lost, I’m not infected.”  


“No sulfur,” remarks one of the other gun-wielders, a short woman with long black hair. “Her eyes aren’t dilated either, and I don’t see any cuts or bite marks. She looks clean.” Hesitantly, the man in the front lowers his shotgun, and the others follow.  


“You can’t stay here permanently.”  


“I just need someplace to spend the night.”  


Jody still can’t see the man’s face clearly in the darkness, but from what she can tell he’s in his early thirties, short blonde hair and tattered denims. He looks a little bit like Dean, but softer; spared the Hunter upbringing. “Fine,” he says, allowing Jody to step on past the makeshift threshold, a hole in the middle of a haphazard barricade. “We don’t have any extra tents or anything, and we’re low on food. You’re gonna have to sleep on the ground.”  


“I understand,” says Jody.  


“And if you make a move, I’ll -”  


“I _know_. I get how this works.” The man’s eyes linger on Jody for a few seconds, as if gauging how much of a threat she actually poses him. He grunts and leads her into the camp.  


As the escorts lead her through the site, Jody drinks in the dilapidated rows of tents with wide eyes. It sends chills racing up and down her spine, despondency settling in her heart. Small children dart between tents, their laughter intermingling with crying and other sounds of tragedy. Grime coats everything, from the tarps to the clothes, and emergency storm lights act as makeshift lampposts, illuminating the beaten dusty paths. People sit on the ground, huddled in groups and eating from cans, some of them looking up to Jody with hollowed eyes. Jody forces herself to keep looking, pushing onwards.  


They lead her to the other end of the encampment, where the population is the most fickle. Shotgun Guy motions to an unoccupied spot around an open fire, and silently Jody takes a seat, the man settling beside her. A woman who had already been seated passes the man a can of something, which he fishes out with his fingers, dropping into his mouth. “Thanks, Tracy,” he mumbles, taking another bite. Jody watches in fascination, but as he offers her some she politely digresses; unlike these people, she has been fortunate enough to have steady access to food. “Where was your group coming from?” asks the man as he swallows another mouthful of the mush. Jody’s eyes flick to the fire, the flames licking the black night air.  


“There weren’t many of us, maybe ten. We hid out in the city for a while after the quarantine, but the Croats got to be too much. We were trying to get out.”  


The man makes a noncommittal noise. “Only ten? Neighbors? Family?”  


Jody swallows, trying not to think of her actual family, both in blood and in spirit. “Both.” She looks up from the fire, meeting the man’s eyes. They’re brown, not at all like Dean’s. “Actually, we were looking to meet up with my sister. She left a while before us, and she might have wandered this way.”  


The man passes the can back to the other woman, wiping his hands on his tattered jeans. “It’s doubtful, but what does she look like?”  


The sheriff purses her lips. She bears no resemblance to Rowena, especially with the accent, but given the cover of darkness perhaps it will do. There’s always the adoption backup. “She’s about 5’3’’. Long red hair, dark eyes.”  


Shotgun Guy seems to think about it for a bit before shrugging, his palms facing upwards. “Look lady, I’m sorry. There are a lot of people here, and I’m not even sure if there’s anyone who knows everybody here. I can help you look -”  


“Wait.” The woman with the can suddenly jumps into the conversation, her bright blue eyes sparking with recognition. “Was she wearing a long black dress?”  


Jody’s heartbeat speeds up, and she can feel the sweat collecting at the back of her neck, through the pre-winter chill. “Yeah. Do you know where she is?”  


The woman nods, setting the can down on the hardened ground. “Yeah, she’s towards the middle of the camp. I can bring you to her.”  


It’s getting unbearable, the thrum of her heart against her chest. Jody does her best to control the quiver in her voice. “That would be great,” she says as levelly as she can manage.

 

|

 

Sometimes Michael whispers to Dean. It doesn’t happen very often; for the most part the archangel leaves Dean to do his own thing, disappearing behind the older Winchester’s thoughts and memories until he is needed. But every now and then he’ll resurface to make a comment on something, be it Dean’s actions or otherwise. Now is one of those times.  


Dean is sitting alone, kneeling on the grass in front of Mary Winchester’s grave when Michael makes one of these comments. _You loved her very much._  


Dean smiles softly to himself, running his fingers over the dying snow-covered grass surrounding the grave. As his hand trails across the blades they are restored, green returning to the land. Sometimes, he reminds himself, angels don’t just kill and maim. They can still heal. _Yeah. I did._  


Michael is silent for a while after this, leaving Dean to grieve. _If I told you that she was in Heaven, would that help at all?_  


Dean’s mind quits functioning for a few seconds as he processes this. When he and Sam had gone to Heaven after being shot, Ash had told them that he had found neither Mary nor John. For a while he had feared that maybe Mary’s spirit really was gone, like the psychic Missouri had speculated. But this, knowing for sure that his mother is someplace where she can be at peace, it’s like having a hundred-pound weight lifted off of him. Heaven had been a nightmare for him, but maybe for Mary Winchester it could be the Eden she deserved.  


_Yes. It helps._  


They don’t talk again after this, respecting each other’s boundaries. Shortly afterwards Dean leaves the cemetery, the only sign of his having been there a stray black feather among the frost.

 

|

 

The woman, Tracy, is true to her word, leading Jody deep into the camp where the tents are clustered closest together, and the heat from open fires is ever present. She leans in close to Jody, raising a hand to point to a particularly tattered looking grey tent off to their right. “She’s usually over there. I don’t know where she went.”  


Jody nods. “Thanks,” she says, giving her companion an uncertain smile. “I’m sure I’ll find her.” However, the smile quickly fades from her face, and Jody’s heart slows. Suddenly Tracy’s eyes are dark and bloodshot, the other woman’s lips still frozen in what now comes across as a canine smile.  


“Wait a minute,” Tracy says cheerfully, motioning to the space behind Jody. “She’s right here.”  


Dreading what she will find, Jody Mills revolves glacially towards the spot behind her. Rowena’s slender frame flashes her a smile, and there is an emptiness behind her eyes which fills the sheriff with non mitigable dread.  


“Jody,” coos the Darkness, and the Hunter can feel tears prickling her eyes as she prays. “How kind of you to come. We’ve been waiting for you.”

 

|

 

When Dean gets back to the warehouse outside of Milwaukee, he finds Gabriel and Crowley sitting at the planning table playing cards. Neither the angel nor the demon look up at his arrival, even as he asks, “Don’t you have garrisons to be running?”  


“There hasn’t been any Croat activity in at least twelve hours,” remarks Gabriel, laying down a card. Crowley swears under his breath.  


Dean crosses his arms. “Wouldn’t that be, like, a sign that maybe something big is brewing?”  


Crowley sighs dramatically as he lays down his own card, Gabriel scowling. “You know, if we’re about to go in kamikaze style, I’d at least like to enjoy one final bottle of Craig and a game of cards, mate. Feel free to join.” Dean doesn’t sit down, but he can’t be faulted if he pours himself some Craig in one of the glasses which suddenly appears. He winces as it goes down, purely out of reflex. With the archangel inside of him he’s found that even the numbing effects of alcohol are unattainable as of late.  


“Where are the others?”  


Gabriel keeps his eyes firmly on his cards, an air of disdain to his words. “Azrael’s off with Lucifer, and your boyfriend’s off sulking somewhere.” The corner of Dean’s lip turns downwards at the word boyfriend, but after a moment he realizes that it wasn’t meant in a derogatory way. Not like John would have meant it. And after all, that’s what Cas is, isn’t he? Dean shrugs off the remark and goes to look for the angel.  


He finds him curled up against the rusty iron railing surrounding the roof, something furry clutched in his arms. He glances up as Dean makes his way over, his blue irises shining in the lamplight. “What’s that?” asks Dean, sitting beside him and pointing to the bundle. Slowly, Cas unfurls his arms to reveal the cat stuffed animal he had gotten Claire for her birthday. Dean’s heart arrests. Silently he wraps his arm around Castiel’s back, rubbing his fingers through the black feathers there in as comforting of a manner as he can manage. The angel shudders at the contact.  


“Death isn’t going to let her go,” he whispers. “Even when this is all over, Claire isn’t coming back.”  


Dean wishes that he could contradict Cas. He really does.  


How did they end up here? After everything they’ve been through, averting the Apocalypse and changing the world, they have still arrived in the same spot. The only comfort that Dean can find in this reality is that Castiel still has his grace, and this time he has Dean too. Dean won’t let him become like the Cas from that world Zachariah had shown him; without hope, hooked on every drug he could get his hands on, going through the motions. Empty. He’ll keep Cas safe. Christ, he’s already lost his brother-  


Dean violently pushes the thought aside. He _hasn’t_ lost Sam, not yet, and he can’t allow himself to think that. His brother’s still there, somewhere buried deep within Lucifer, and when this is all over he’ll get him back.  


Lucifer promised.  


At that moment there is a faint whispering sound which Dean strains to hear, a voice. He looks to Castiel and sees him tilting his head too as he listens. The voices clarifies, and as it does it becomes apparent that it isn’t something he is physically hearing so much as something inside of his head. Their heads.  


_Rowena’s here,_ says the voice, and Dean recognizes it as Jody. _I’ve found her. You need to come,_ now. _It’s -_  


The voice cuts off, and silence ensues.  


Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, panic dissipating into the cool determination of a soldier. The Hunter and the angel jump to their feet, stretching their large wings in the wintry air and preparing for flight. Dean closes his eyes, expecting the jarring displacement. But it never comes. He glances to Cas.  


“Are you cut off too?” The angel nods. They dart simultaneously for the stairs leading back inside, flying down two at a time, and Dean is only the slightest concerned that he might trip and fall down all of them. When they reach the bottom, Azrael is already there, her eyes wild with an alarm uncharacteristic of her. Lucifer hovers in the doorway just behind her, and Dean can hear Gabriel and Crowley running down the hallway towards them. Castiel’s trench coat swishes through the air as he comes to stop beside Dean, leaning against the railing to catch sight of the other angels. “You guys heard that?” The angels nod, and Dean swears. “We need to get to the camp _now_. Jody could be hurt, or injured -”  


“Dean!” Lucifer’s exclamation cuts through the air, something acrid to it causing Dean’s stomach to lurch. This isn’t Sammy, it isn’t his brother… “We can’t worry about Jody right now! Do you know what this _means_ you neanderthal? It means that the Darkness knows we’re coming. It means our entire plan is out the window, just like that.”  


Dean shakes his head harder with each word, baring his teeth as a feral sound erupts from the back of his throat. “Fuck you!” he screams towards the figure of his little brother, directing his anger at the vile creature wearing his skin. “You don’t get to write Jody off! We’re going after her, and then we’re going to kill Rowena whether the Darkness sees us coming or not, because this is our best shot! Do you understand?”  


Lucifer narrows his eyes, matching Dean’s serpentine gaze. “And how do you propose we get there in time?”  


Again, Dean shakes his head. “We drive.”  


“And the _armies_?”  


Dean casts a desperate glance to Gabriel, whose eyes seem to flash with a peculiar understanding. “I have an idea.”

 

|

 

Somewhere in the American Northwest is a collapsed house on an abandoned street, the neighbors having long-since vacated. Insects buzz, and a dog barks in the distance, but other than that the dilapidated home is silent. Within its walls resides one solitary creature, impossibly old despite the form it bears. It hunches over an old writing desk as it listens to the sounds from outside, contemplating. The creature lifts its pen, placing the tip on a crinkled sheet of paper, and begins to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S: Really, this applies to the next chapter, but too many emotionally exhausting things occur in it for me to remember to post this when the time comes. So let it be known that I drive a Ford Taurus. It used to be a cop car. And I call it "The Zombie Slayer". That is all.


	9. All Our Times Have Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: ["(Don't Fear) The Reaper"](https://youtu.be/Dy4HA3vUv2c?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> Bonus Song (For the big fight scene): ["Whispering"](https://youtu.be/mCGZciEjrWw?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> 

It feels good to be back in the Impala, his hands on the steering wheel and his music streaming from the speakers. It gives him the illusion of control, order in an orderless world. Like everything might actually be okay in the end, even though Dean knows that it most definitely won’t.  


They’re hurtling down I-94 with a convoy of demon and angel-occupied cars behind them. Although none of them had been able to fly anywhere near Chicago, they had at least been able to gather their haggard garrisons in Milwaukee, and thanks to Gabriel, they were able to conjure enough vehicles to support the ragtag army.  


If they’re going to go out, they might as well do it in style.  


And if Dean lets his mind wander enough, it’s almost like being on any other hunt, what with his windows rolled down, and Sam beside him…  


Except it isn’t Sam.  


Lucifer sits rigidly in the passenger seat, looking out the side window much like Sam often would, except now there is blatant disinterest where there should have been curiosity. It’s been a month since Dean last talked to his little brother, and even with Lucifer’s word, he’s afraid that he’ll never get to again.  


Dean clears his throat, but Lucifer doesn’t pay any attention. He does it again. And again. Finally, Lucifer turns towards him with an expression of annoyance which is almost Sam, and that just makes Dean even angrier. He swallows his fury.  


“Sam,” he says, and he lets the name hang there, stagnating in the air. He sighs. “Does he see everything that happens? Is he still in there, just watching?”  


With a roll of the eyes, Lucifer turns back to gazing out the window at the wrecked Interstate, abandoned cars piled up on the sides. “Yeah, he’s still in here. Front row seat.”  


Dean wants nothing more than to beat the archangel to a bloody pulp, because this evil _thing’s_ utter disregard for his brother is infuriating. He knows that with Michael’s help he could take him, but all of those years ago that was precisely what they had been trying to prevent. A showdown right here and right now in the name of Sam Winchester would do no good.  


“Can I talk to him?” he asks before he can even realize it, and he’s surprised as he hears the words leave his mouth. Lucifer swivels back to face him with that same indignant look, and if he weren’t wearing his brother right now Dean would so be kicking the shit out of him. A cruel grin spreads across Sam’s lips, and Dean’s skin crawls.  


“Aw, Dean. Who would have thought _you_ to be the sentimental type? Tell me, why should I let you speak to him?”  


_Because then I won’t stomp you out of existence._ “Because.” He means to say more, but he just can’t find the words. _Because_ what? He is literally speaking to the Devil right now, and there isn’t any hint of moral obligation which is going to get through to him. The bastard is the embodiment of corruption and hatred and evil, and there’s nothing Dean can say that will make him agree -  


“Fine.” Dean almost doesn’t believe his ears as he hears the word echo about the interior of the Impala. He doesn’t even have time to react as Lucifer tilts his head back against the top of the leather seat, his eyes curling back into his skull until all he can see is the whites. Dean has to force himself to look away so that he doesn’t crash the car, glancing back every now and then towards his writhing brother. And then Sam’s body snaps forward, breathing heavy, and there is consciousness once more in those eyes. _Sam’s_ consciousness.  


“Sammy?” The sound is small and strangled as it escapes Dean’s throat, the Hunter sparing glances from the road to the younger Winchester. Sam blinks a few times, his ridiculous hair falling in front of his eyes, clinging to his forehead where beads of sweat glisten in the headlights. And then he turns to face Dean, his mouth frozen open in shock.  


“Yeah, Dean. It’s me.”  


Dean’s being such a pansy right now as he blinks away tears, the road blurring in his vision, but he doesn’t even care. Because even if it’s for a little while, _he has his brother back._  


“How’re you feeling?” he chokes out, because he has no idea what else to say.  


Sam laughs at this, his lips curling up into a sardonic grin. “Considering… I’m all right.” His expression softens, and it’s 100% Sam when the other man looks back at him, and it makes Dean’s heart ache. “What about you?” asks his younger brother gently.  


“M’okay.” And despite everything, right here and right now he means it.  


Dean clutches the wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white and his fingers numbing, but he doesn’t care. He is content just to hear his brother’s voice.

 

|

 

Castiel rides in his battered Lincoln with Azrael, following the Impala’s lead as they snake their way down the Interstate. The ride is marked by uncomfortable silence, Cas owning no music and the Angel of Death not being one much for conversation.  


She does not make mention of the cat stuffed animal sitting in the back seat, looking sadly out of place in the old, rundown vehicle.  


At one point, Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but Azrael interrupts him. She fixes the angel with a fierce stare, Claire’s blue eyes seeming all the brighter beneath the layers of dark makeup. “I know what you are going to say Castiel, so don’t say it. Despite what you may believe, I am not a creature of malice.”  


Castiel’s lips draw into a tight white line and he navigates the vehicle, maintaining a careful distance behind Dean. “Then why her?”  


Azrael sighs, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Claire’s hands. There is still black nail polish painted on them, several littered with little white skulls. The irony is not lost on Castiel.  


“I explained this to you before; she was the closest vessel that could contain me, and there was no time to find another. I did not take her by force. Claire agreed.”  


“And what happens to her?”  


Death’s next words are strangely devoid of venom, although they do contain a depth of weariness. “You ought to know this, angel. She is still inside, dormant. She can have her body back when the time comes…”  


“And when will that be?”  


“I don’t know, Castiel!” Azrael actually shouts, Claire’s features twisting to reflect anger. And then, as quickly as the emotion had manifested, it is gone. Azrael settles back into the seat, returning her eyes to the road ahead and crossing her arms over the black leather of her jacket. “It will take me time to find another suitable vessel if we succeed in vanquishing the Darkness.” She pauses. “Claire asked me to take her to Heaven. To Jimmy and Amelia.”  


Suddenly everything goes achingly silent, and all Castiel can hear is the pumping of blood through his veins. He’s failed, failed in so many ways… “But you didn’t take her?”  


Azrael rests her head against the seat, her eyes drifting shut briefly. “No. I gave her 24 hours to think it over, and I promised her that if it was what she still wanted at the end of that interim I would deliver her to Heaven. I may no longer be a Horseman, but I am still the Angel of Death.” Azrael turns to face Castiel now, Claire’s unreal blue eyes piercing him at the very core. “In the end, she wished to remain here. With you.”  


Castiel takes a few minutes to let the words sink in, and he swallows the lump which had been forming in his throat. “I… I see.”  


“She’ll still be here for you when it’s over, Castiel. I recommend that you do your best to ascertain that you make it out as well. For her sake.”  


They don’t speak again for the rest of the ride, the only sound the whistle of air through the back windows and the rattling of the muffler.

 

|

 

“So, what are you going to do after all of this?” Crowley leans back in the passenger seat of the Ford Taurus Gabriel had conjured up (-“Of all of the cars you could choose, why _this_?” -“Because believe it or not, I _like_ it.”). He’s dutifully filling in the slots of the last New York Times crossword puzzle issued before Croatoan, changing the answers when his responses don’t fit in the spaces.  


Gabriel shrugs, flipping the vehicle into cruise control. “Not sure. I kind of said I’d go back to Heaven, but after that, who knows.” He shifts his gaze to the demon for a moment, his expression relaxed but guarded. “And you?”  


Crowley raises his shoulders noncommittally, filling in another column. “Go back to Hell. Clean up management a bit. Everything is still a tad screwy from when that bitch Abaddon took over, good riddance to her. _T’inquiète pas_ , Hell will stay out of your feathers, as I promised.” The crossroads demon scrunches up his face a bit as he weighs something, clicking his pen shut. “Of course, you’re welcome to pop in for a visit if Heaven gets too bossy. I’ll break out an extra bottle of Craig and we can play some cards.”  


Gabriel chuckles a bit, and the sound is genuine. “Maybe I will.”

 

|

 

About an hour into the drive, they split up. Gabriel and Crowley take their garrison to approach from the south. Azrael and Castiel move to approach from the west. Sam disappears again as Lucifer switches cars, stepping into a red mustang with a hoard of demons to approach form the east. Dean is left alone in the Impala to invade from the north. He turns up the volume of the Kansas cassette he’s thrown in until he can hardly hear himself think, and that’s how he likes it. He’d rather _not_ think. But with “Dust In The Wind” ringing in his ears, self-reflection is inevitable.  


_Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind…_  


And it’s the truth, isn’t it? Dean blinks, and for the second time that night his eyes are stinging. There isn’t anyone here to judge him save himself, so he lets the tears stream down his face, the heaviness in his heart to take control. What _has_ his life really amounted to? Everywhere he goes people die or get hurt, and all anyone needs to do to see the evidence of that is look up at the sky. He’s grown up knowing that he meant _nothing_ , that his only job was to keep his brother and the people they were trying to save safe.  


Where did he go wrong?  


_All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see…_  

Dean wipes away the tears stubbornly with his right hand, the skin of his cheek stretching beneath the influence of his fingers.  


He’s fucked up. A lot. But he _has_ saved people. _That’s_ what he’s going to leave behind, those people he’s saved and the lives of his friends and family. Because Dean Winchester means nothing by himself. He is Sammy and Cas and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and everyone else he has ever loved. _That’s_ what defines him. _That’s_ his purpose.  


He might not be anything more than dust, but his family is the glass created when lighting strikes sand.

Dean drives for what feels like forever, carefully coordinating with the others via angel radio to ascertain that they reach the camp at the same time. At first Dean thinks that he’s gotten lost. He sees no ambient glow in the distance, and even more disconcerting is the lack of Croatoan activity. Still, he keeps driving, and eventually it becomes evident that they’re on the right track. Not ten minutes later does he begin to make out the silhouettes of Croats, semi-human shapes scuttling like rats along the horizon. Dean slams on the breaks, skidding to a halt on the side of the road, and he prays that at least the demons within his garrison will know a thing or two about how _not_ to tail end him. His prayers are answered.  


Dean kills the engine, Steve Walsh’s voice dying mid lyric - _Masquerading as a man with a reason…_ Solemnly, like a mourner in a funeral procession, the older Winchester steps out of the Impala to stare into the distance, a string of car doors slamming in response as the angels and demons do the same. One by one the headlights die, and they are left in complete darkness to listen to the shrieking of rapidly approaching Croats.  


_This is it._  


Dean turns to face his garrison, Michael surfacing in his mind to dominate the strategic portion of his brain. “Get ready!”  


The wind has barely carried his words when the first wave hits. The Croats strike hard and fast, and Dean nearly buckles under the weight of them. They move in a swarm, one giant curdling black wave batting them down like a boat lost at sea. Michael’s wings pull into this dimension to beat against them desperately in an attempt to break free, but there are too many. He can feel himself sinking…  


Michael’s blade appears in his hand, and the archangel’s instinct takes over. He begins to swing, a white light cutting through darkness and limbs as the Croats squeal in pain. He quickens his already feverish pace, pushing through to the surface where he can breathe in the cold air again. Michael looks around to his battalion, and he sees that they are already being buried. The wings of angels thrash from beneath the army of Croats, and demons attempt to claw their way through to no avail.  


He has to leave, has to get into the camp, but he can’t just leave them.  


Setting his jaw, he uses his wings to thrust himself into the black mass, his blade clashing with the flesh of monsters. He frees the first of the angels, who, freed from the grasp of the Croats, move on to help their brethren and demonic allies. Steadily the Croats begin to thin out as more and more fall, but there are still enough of them left for the garrison to remain firmly occupied.  


It’s now or never.  


The archangel takes the opportunity to slink away towards the camp.  


Dean follows Michael’s guide as he navigates the forest by foot, unable to teleport through the invisible barricade established by the Darkness. He can hear the angels in his head, shouting orders back and forth and reporting back. It isn’t just his garrison either, but the entire Heavenly Host in his mind, or at least what remains after the long months of combat agains the Croatoans. Inside of him, Michael weeps at the sounds of his siblings in distress. All Dean can do is push onwards.  


He reaches the boundaries to the camp, and the walls are left untended. This alone is enough to spark unease within him, causing him to curl his wings in tight like a shield. There is a curious chill, different from that of winter settling in, which causes his hairs to stand on end and his feathers to ruffle. As he approaches the site it only increases, becoming almost unbearable as he steps across the threshold and into the camp.  


There are tents everywhere, some of them as crude as tarps thrown over branches and poles. Small fires are still smoldering on the ground, their red embers shining like rubies beneath the obsidian sky. Empty tin cans roll around in the slight breeze, and there is the twinkling of wind chimes somewhere a ways off. But no people. Not even the barking of dogs or the scurry of rodents. Just silence.  


_Are you there?_ Dean directs the question to no one in particular, just whoever will answer. He breathes out, and his breath crystallizes in the air.  


It’s like begin back in the Cage.  


As he continues through the empty camp, Dean tries again. _Hey. Guys?_  


A voice sputters in the back of his mind, like a bad radio connection. He tries to concentrate on it, imagining it as a tuning dial, no matter how stupid it is. The analogy works, because a few seconds later he can hear the voice clearly.  


_Dean._ Relief floods the Winchester at the sound of Castiel’s voice, even if it’s only in his head. He holds onto it, like a beacon of light, guiding him through the pitch black.  


_Cas. Where is everyone? Are you… are you all right?_  


The angel’s voice weakens, with each increasing moment sounding further away. Dean does what he can to hold onto it, desperately grasping for the slightest of intonations until it’s all he can focus on.  


_Azrael is making her way into the camp now. I have had no contact with Gabriel or Lucifer, but I can only assume that they are near. What do you see?_

Dean swallows, taking cautious steps as his boots resound over the brittle earth. _There’s no one here. They’re all just gone._  


Again, that terrible shudder grips Dean, rocketing up and down his spine and to the very tips of his wings. It’s cold, so cold…  


_Dean, they aren’t gone._  


_Come again?_

   
_They’re still there, somewhere. Rowena must -_  


Whatever Cas says next, Dean doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy staring down the lone figure approaching from the distance, its silhouette made distinct only by the illumination of the flickering storm lights and the dying embers of the fires. Dean’s muscles tense, his wings pull back and he clutches his blade tighter, ready to fight. _Dean. Dean?_ He can still hear Castiel in his head, and he wants to tell him not to worry, but he doesn’t. What would be the point?  


“Dean!” Another familiar voice calls out to him, and not just in his mind.  


“Jody?” He nearly drops the blade as he lunges toward the figure, ready to wrap her in his arms. But that would be too easy. The Winchesters have never been that lucky, especially when it comes to their friends. The words “I’m so glad you’re okay” perish in the back of his throat, leaving behind an ashen taste there and a queasy feeling in his stomach. Dean’s so cold, his limbs are numb…  


Jody Mills blinks back at him with her doe eyes, but they are empty, and there is something terribly wrong with her inflections. “Good to see you again, Dean.” She takes a step closer, her hand distorting into a claw and going straight through Dean’s torso. Dean falls to the ground, his vision flashing red as he gasps for air. Blood is pouring from the wound now, out onto Jody’s hand as the Darkness twists it deeper, and he cries out in pain. The Darkness pulls out the hand in a mercilessly slow motion, and when it is gone he is left with nothing to support him but his own failing limbs.  


He calls out, _Cas!_ but no answer ever comes. Everything goes black.

 

 

|

 

Rowena blinks. She actually blinks of her own accord, her body responding to _her_ impulses rather than that of the alien Darkness that had used her as a puppet for so long.  


Her vision is blurry, and as she fumbles to sit up she can make out what look like sparks falling through the air like snow. There’s snow too, but it’s on the ground, stinging the palms of her hands, which are scuffed and bloody. She can feel the flakes melting beneath the heat of her skin, the wetness soaking through her clothes. She pushes to her feet.  


Looking around, she tries to remember. She’s at a refugee camp for Croatoan survivors somewhere in the in the northeastern United States… Chicago, she thinks. The Darkness had been hiding here, waiting for the angelic resistance to find it. It had infected the survivors long ago, without their knowledge, waiting for the right moment to use them. And then, it had let her go. Why had it let her go?  


Ah. The sheriff. It had taken a new body, one which the Winchesters would be irresolute to destroy. One final blow.  


Rowena’s head pounds incessantly, and she raises her hands to clutch it, threading her fingers through her long red hair. She has to get out of here. Any moment now the archangels will arrive and the battle will begin, and she doesn’t want to be anywhere near the blast zone. She turns to run.  


But she doesn’t. Rowena turns back to the empty camp, the embers still licking the sky as they fly from the smoldering fires.  


Rowena Macleod is not a heroic creature. She never has been, and she has no desire to be. She is not sentimental or compassionate, and she does not care about other people. But she never wanted _this_. Even when she had summoned the Darkness, she had never imagined _this_ world.  


The witch takes a staggering step in the direction she knows the Darkness to be. It may no longer be a part of her, but she can still _feel_ it.  


In that moment, she decides: the Darkness cannot win, no matter what the price.

 

|

 

As he struggles through swarms of Croats, Castiel can hear Dean in his head. The sound of his voice, especially in panic, is enough to make him fight a little harder, his blade slashing the infected from all angles. He can feel them pulling at his wings, grounding him until it’s like he’s been caught in the undertow of some giant body of water. It hurts so much, and it won’t stop…  


With a sudden burst of energy he claws through the swarm, breathing in the air, sweet with the metallic tang of blood. More angels and demons shriek as they are caught in battle, but they are far behind him. He cannot concern himself with the others, not right now. He needs to make sure that Azrael gets through to the other side. That’s how he can keep Dean safe.  


Suddenly, Dean’s voice cuts out. _Dean? Dean!_ The seraphim repeats the name until the thought alone is enough to deafen him, ice cold fear rocketing through his every fiber. He pushes it back down in an attempt to block the human emotion he has become so accustomed to. He is an angel, _a soldier_. He has to be for Dean.  


_Azrael?_ Castiel shifts his focus to those that he can help in his immediate vicinity. The Angel of Death is a ways ahead of him, fighting through the foremost layer of Croatoans.  


_Yes._ Damaged as the word sounds, there is still a titanic force behind it, a reflection of the raw strength possessed by the creature who spoke it. It isn’t a question, simply an acknowledgement.  


_Dean needs help. Go. I’ll hold them off in time for you to get there. I’ll hold them_ all _off._  


The archangel lingers for a moment, like she is hesitant to leave. But then, surely enough, Castiel feels her presence retreat, and he is alone with the Croatoans and his floundering garrison.  


He’ll always be the one left holding up the final line of defense, the last one swinging. It’s what he was made for.

 

|

 

“What the hell am I paying you for? Go at it!”  


Crowley’s exclamations ring in Gabriel’s ears as they clash with the Croats, demons and angels united against a common enemy. There is the rev of car engines as some of the demons attempt to drive through the mass, and then there are the naked shrieks of others who are unfortunate enough not to have the protection. Gabriel closes his eyes, and he thinks to himself bitterly, it’s just like being back home.  


This is why he had left Heaven all of those ages ago. So he wouldn’t have to be a part of _this_. Funny how things have a way of catching up to you.  


_Gabriel._ Azrael’s voice carries through his thoughts, and he focuses on it with laser-like precision as he slashes his way through a fresh wave of assailants.  


_I am here, Sister._  


_Michael requires our assistance within the camp. The Darkness has found him._  


Gabriel grits his teeth, his glorious tawny wings fanning out behind him as they thrust aside Croatoans. _Get Lucifer. I’m coming._  


He musters all of the energy that he can, and he flies.

 

|

 

Sam Winchester feels like a prisoner in his own body. The worst part is that it’s nothing new to him: he’s been through brainwashing, demonic possessions, and a couple of angelic ones too in his time. But it will never stop being weird or disturbing to him.  


Jimmy Novak was right. Being inhabited by an angel is indeed like being chained to a comet. As Lucifer dives into the Croatoan army, it’s Sam’s muscles contracting and his bones cracking. It’s _his_ sweat coating _his_ skin. Lucifer may be in control, but he can feel _everything_ , from the beating of his wings to the slicing of his skin.  


Sam in’t as lucky as Dean. Michael gives Dean control, lending him his strength and his knowledge. Together the two have formed a sort of symbiosis, both parties benefiting and drawing necessary boundaries. All Sam can do is sit back and watch.  


Sometimes he hears Lucifer’s thoughts, sees his memories. Sam’s own recollections of the Cage are twisted and incomplete, but surely they do nothing to compare to _this_. Because when he has access to fallen angel’s memories he can hear the screams of every one of his victims. He can see the blood and the wicked strife, the cruelty of millennia all squished into his fragile human brain. And the worst part is, _he can’t make it stop._  


So Sam tries not to think. Instead he lets Lucifer handle him like a puppet, pulling the strings and making him dance in different ways as he slices Croats to pieces and directs demons and angels alike. But when he hears Azrael’s voice, carrying the words, _Michael’s in trouble_ , Sam can’t help but think.  


_We have to help._ Sam practically screams the thought at Lucifer, but the archangel keeps on slashing, the blood enticing him. The Darkness may have broken free, but its corruption within the archangel is everlasting. It beckons in a way that brings back memories of Dean with the Mark of Cain, the rooms of mangled bodies Sam had found later.  


_Lucifer._ He keeps going. He’s snapping a Croat’s neck now, impaling another, and there’s blood, hot blood all over…  


_Lucifer! We have to help!_  


At last the archangel seems to hear him, because suddenly he stops hacking. With shaking hands, he lowers his blade to his side and looks back to his floundering garrison.  
_We can’t worry about them. We need to go_ now. _It’s the only way we’ll stop the Darkness._  


Lucifer tilts his head forward in the slightest acknowledgement of Sam’s statement, thoughts of slaughter and bloodshed still hurtling through his mind. Somewhere amidst the chaos, the gravity of the situation pokes through, the tiniest pinprick of light in the Morning Star’s corrupted mind. _Yes._  


The archangel shakes out his wings and leaves silently, slipping away from the chaos which is rapidly overtaking his garrison with great urgency. As the wind rushes past him, streaming through his hair and feathers, Sam’s last thought is, _I’m coming, Dean._

 

|

 

Everything is still black, but Dean can feel someone’s breath in his ear. A soft, feminine voice whispers to him, her tone playful and seductive, but there is nothing sexy about the words. He tries to move, but something’s restraining him. He’s paralyzed.  


“Poor, _poor_ Dean,” coos the voice. The force holding him down constricts, the infuriating darkness still shielding his vision. There is a piercing in his abdomen where he had been impaled, and he’s losing blood faster than Michael can restore it. He’s going to bleed to death. “The little birdy has a broken wing.” The pressure focuses, and with an acute twist Dean can feel his left wing bend backwards, the bones snapped as if they were nothing more than twigs. He screams out, the hot pain shooting through him. Beneath his skin, Michael shrieks as well.  


“We’re sorry,” mocks the Darkness, distorting Jody’s voice into something asinine and awful. “Did that hurt?” Dean’s vision begins to thaw, and he can now make out the sheriff’s grainy silhouette against the sparks still flying through the air. She isn’t alone anymore. Dean’s heartbeat, already elevated by his broken bones and gushing wound, pounds at a rate threatening to crack his ribs as well. Behind the Darkness is a crowd which stretches back as far as the Winchester can see. From what he can tell, the entire camp’s population stands behind Jody, metamorphosed into blood-thirsty Croatoan monsters beckoning to the will of the destructive entity. He grimaces at the pain, his teeth clenching as he attempts to regulate his breathing. All the while, he whispers to Michael, hoping that the archangel inside of him won’t bow out on him now.  


_Where are the others? Are they coming?_  


_I can feel them close by. They’ll be here soon._  


There is another twist as Dean’s other wing is violently jerked upwards, fresh bones splitting, and Dean falls to all fours. He gasps for airs, and what has returned of his vision is now laced with throbbing, angry red streaks. Through the different shades of scarlet he looks up to Jody. The Darkness lowers itself to Dean’s eye level, crouching down on Jody’s legs and looking at him with her eyes. “Where are your friends, birdy?” She brings up a slender hand to stroke the sensitive skin of his back where his wings meet his shoulder blades. He shivers, struggling to restrain himself from lashing out. Fighting her now, alone, will end in almost certain annihilation for Dean and Michael, as well as the elimination of their best shot. He can’t risk it.  


A voice like gravel - a voice that Dean would recognize anywhere - prompts both the Darkness and Dean to look up. “Hey, assbutt!”  


Dean’s chest swells with pride for the briefest of moments as he meets Castiel’s eyes, but that warm feeling is suddenly replaced with dread. The seraphim stands defiantly, his trench coat swirling ominously about the legs of his battered suit. At his side is Crowley, and behind them abides a garrison of waiting angels and demons. The Darkness smiles dangerously as it approaches the lesser angel, Castiel’s blue eyes not diverting once from Jody’s movements.  


“If it isn’t another angel with wings for us to clip…”  


Castiel’s gaze drifts past Jody, and the Darkness whips around to find the figures of three other angels surrounding her. The army of Croatoans hovers in the background, still dormant, although Dean suspects not for long as they face down the garrison. The Darkness blinks lazily, sneer widening as she inspects the archangels. No longer under the scrutiny of his attacker, Dean struggles to his feet to join them, clutching at his abdomen, and his hands come back soaked in red. His battered wings drag painfully on the ground, but goddamn it, his legs still work…  


The Darkness laughs, an unsettlingly hollow sound made even more dreadful by the fact that Jody’s mouth doesn’t seem to move. “I haven’t seen all of you lot in the same place in a very, _very_ long time. I suppose a reunion was overdue.” The army of Croatoans inches forward, snarling and hissing in the darkness like the rabid animals that they have become. The Darkness opens its arms, palms facing upwards to reveal empty hands. _“Well?”_ The unnerving smile dissolves into a terrible blankness. _“We’re right here.”_  


With a _slink_ , five angel blades slide into the hands of their wielders, the remnants of Team Free Will standing in a circle around the Darkness. The Croats shudder, but otherwise everything is eerily still, the only movement being the intermingling of falling sparks and snowflakes.  


Dean’s can feel his pulse through every part of his body, the hum of Michael’s energy electrifying his bones. It’s dizzying, standing here with his fatal wound and his broken wings with his unlikely allies, and it’s then that he realizes that _this_ is what his life has been leading up to. He was born to be the Michael Sword, a fate he thought he had avoided, an Apocalypse he believed he had averted. But that’s not how his life works; like a river, one can keep putting stones in the water, but all they will do is temporarily diverge the stream. In the end, the river still ends in the same place.  


He is the first to jolt into action, lurching forwards with a primal scream as he raises his sword, the blade glinting red in the reflection of fire. Behind him, the Croatoans begin to move in one singular wave, but he’s faster than then, even with his broken bones. Castiel’s garrison moves to hold them off, clashing with the perimeter.  


He can’t let it get to him that this is Jody’s body before him. This isn’t Jody anymore, and she would want him to finish this. He _owes_ it to her.  


The Darkness does not so much as move, simply blinking in ennui. With a blasé wave of its hand, Dean is sent sailing backwards, a thousand invisible claws ripping his insides apart until he is choking on his own coppery blood. In his head, Michael is chanting something lowly in Enochian, attempting to abate the fire alighting his organs, reverse the damage. It’s slow and not completely effective, but surely enough Dean can feel the slow mending of vital parts. He fights the invisible grip of the Darkness.  


Lucifer and Gabriel move simultaneously to strike from opposite sides, their white and cream wings arching gracefully, eclipsed only briefly by the Croats attempting to intercept them. The two archangels plow forwards, fighting the invisible strikes of the Darkness, their swords raised dutifully. Gabriel reaches Jody first. A hot white light is emanating from the edge of his blade, and it gets so close to piercing the skin before he too is pushed backwards. The archangel plants his feet in the ground, doing his best to remain in place, but the Croats reach him quickly. They claw at him, staining his glorious wings with jeweled blood, and he grimaces as he swallows the screams. Gabriel raises his left hand just enough to snap, and as he does so a ring of scorching fire bursts through the surrounding air like a shockwave, burning the damned creatures. Lucifer seizes the momentary distraction to take his turn against the Darkness, angling low, but before he can so much as graze it, the Darkness directs its dark gaze to him. There is a visible struggle as the fallen angel’s own hand and sword attempt to betray him, a combat of wills as the blade shakes violently and turns towards him. Dean can see it in the twisting of Sam’s face, the terrible strain that his body is under. Before the blade can reach his throat, Dean breaks completely free of the Darkness’ hold, propelling himself forward and toward Jody. The Darkness turns towards him, releasing Lucifer, but before it can use the same trick on him, Dean sheathes his blade. The Darkness cocks its head in confusion as Dean clenches his fists, as if to say, _How stupid_ are _you?_ The moment passes, and the Darkness beckons its challenger forward.  


As Dean lunges, he catches Azrael’s eyes behind Jody. The Angel of Death careens toward the sheriff, moving in a graceful arc as if to cut it, but at the last second she diverges, anticipating the Darkness’ attention. The distraction buys a second, more than enough time for the archangels to break free of their respective restraints. Again they surround the Darkness in a compass formation, Jody at the center. Pain radiates all over Dean’s body, throughout every bone, muscle, and graft of skin. But he ignores it. He cannot afford to feel it, not now. Here in this second he is not a singular entity, but one of many…  


For the briefest of moments, there is hope. All four archangels prepare to move at once, but they are abruptly held back by a wave of Croatoans which have broken past, having all but annihilated Castiel’s battalion. They rip at Dean’s sensitive wings and his human skin, and oh God, Dean is being buried and he can see the others fall beneath the masses as well. He slices with his sword, but there are too many of them, it’s too much.  


Suddenly the cloud abates, and Dean can feel cool air come into contact with his skin, the world coming into sharp relief once more. The other archangels fight through their own waves, gasping as they resurface, shaking out battered wings and clutching swords. However, as their gazes drift over to the Darkness still inhabiting Jody’s body, their faces are plastered with the same confusion which Dean feels creeping into his own features.  


Before the Darkness stands Rowena.

 

|

 

The witch takes her presence before the Darkness, her fingers curled into fists at her side so tightly that she can feel blood welling beneath her nails.  


Rowena is scared. She has only known fear a handful of times before in her life: when she found herself homeless for the first time, just before she met Oskar. When she had to kill the dear boy. And when she first felt the Darkness clawing its way inside of her, ripping everything that made her _her_ into a million pieces. Even now she is barely holding herself together.  


She may be weakened and terrified, but Rowena is by no means powerless. She can feel the cuts of the binding sigils on her arms, the slow leak of blood covered by her clothes.  


The Darkness tilts the sheriff’s head, Jody’s short hair falling about her forehead and cheek at an odd angle. A cruel grin toys at the sherif’s lips, and that alone is enough to send dread plummeting to the bottom of Rowena’s stomach, but she holds her ground.  


“Hello, witch,” greets the Darkness, and a chill sweeps Rowena. She digs her nails deeper into her palms, the blood staining the light layer of snow on the ground with red droplets. The Darkness straightens its head, narrowing its gaze. “You really ought to be dead right now.”  


Rowena feels like she’s going to be sick, but she forces a sly smile, vaguely reminiscent of her former cunning self. “You’ve been in my mind, so you really ought to know that I have a knack for self-preservation.”  


The Darkness tilts back its head, a satisfied expression relaxing Jody’s features. It bites the inside of its cheek in a playful manner. “Why are you here?”  


Rowena fights the urge to draw in breath. “This vessel. It can’t contain you.” She gestures with a nod of the head towards Jody, and surely enough, the sheriff’s skin is beginning to peel as if she has suffered nasty burns. It’s only been a short while, but already her body is shutting down.  


The Darkness glowers, looking down to its borrowed form. “Yes. We suppose you’re right.” It raises its gaze to meet Rowena’s, Jody’s green eyes seeming horrifically empty. The witch forces herself to maintain the connection, digging deeper into her palms to relieve the tension. She does all that she can to keep her voice from quivering.  


“I can hold you in without burning up, long enough for you to finish your work. I’m strong enough.”  


Jody’s eyebrow raises, but the rest of her face remains motionless. “You said so yourself; we have been inside of you. We know that you did not host us of your own volition. Why would you want us back?”  


Rowena’s upper lip twitches in the tiniest of motions, and she actually prays that the Darkness does not notice. She just needs to contain it for a moment, and then the archangels can finish it…  


“The power,” she says, channeling what strength she can into her words. “I miss the power.”  


At first, there is no reaction. But then another sinister smile spreads like a plague across Jody’s features. The Darkness glances back to the Croatoan army as it incapacitates the archangels, pulling their makeshift garrisons from limb to limb. She looks back to Rowena. There is no verbal agreement, but suddenly the vile blankness is leaving the sheriff’s eyes, and Jody is slumping to the ground in a useless heap. Rowena’s heartbeat speeds up as she tries to suppress her dread, not wanting to arouse suspicion. But then the Darkness is clawing its way back inside of her, tearing her tattered essence to bits once again, and Rowena reaches for that dark, claustrophobic corner of her mind where she had been forced to survive before as the creature wore her skin. But she doesn’t retreat. Summoning all that is left of her, she fights to keep the Darkness in place. She can feel it struggling against her violently, and she won’t be able to control it much longer, but the binding sigils have locked it into her body. She sees the archangels watching, and although Rowena is unapologetically a creature of sin, she can only hope that they hear her silent prayers.  


_Take me,_ she pleads, turning her body to the waiting archangels. She battles for control of her lips, winning them over for only a second, but that is all that she needs. _“Take me!”_  


Rowena Macleod closes her eyes and waits for the contact of the angel blades against her skin.

 

|

 

Dean watches wordlessly as Rowena converses with the Darkness, his muscles taut and ready to plunge into action at any moment. Castiel and Crowley are still fighting off the active Croatoans with what remains of the garrison, and scattered about the detritus are the other archangels. He looks between them for some kind of signal, but receives nothing but stunned silence.  


Suddenly Jody is collapsing onto the ground, a black, shadow-like mass leaping from her skin and crawling inside Rowena in a display worthy of _The Exorcist_. Rowena stumbles forward, and as she raises her head she looks directly to Dean, and it isn’t the emptiness of the Darkness which he sees behind her eyes, simply the witch. Her expression is dogged, her eyes begging, and Dean doesn’t understand what it all means until she starts to scream, _“Take me!”_  


The other archangels must arrive at the same conclusion, because all at once the four of them leap forwards, swords ready, and this time they meet no resistance, not from the Croats or the Darkness or otherwise. The blades of the archangels skewer Rowena’s skin, the witch doubling over in pain. She gasps for air, her eyes glazing over sightlessly, and she sinks to her knees as her red hair falls over face. Blood pours from the wounds, and for a second everything is dreadfully still. The Croatoans cease their assault, the angels and demons becoming equally platonic. Even the archangels stare down at the body in awe, and Dean looks between them: Gabriel’s grim relief, Lucifer’s thirsty bloodlust, and Azrael’s cold resolve. His eyes flick back down to the corpse, and he can feel Michael inside of him sighing in relief.  


At first Dean thinks that it is a trick of the eye, and he shoves it aside. But then it becomes undeniable; Rowena’s body is _sinking_ , falling into a rapidly growing cavity which certainly wasn’t there a minute ago. Dean and the other archangels back up as quickly as they can, their feet struggling for purchase on the icy ground. The Croatoans shriek, retreating at the depression of the earth, and the garrison does the same. Lucifer and Gabriel have already made it well out of range, and with a flurry of her bluish wings, Azrael retreats. But Dean isn’t moving fast enough with his wound, and his wings are broken. It doesn’t matter how quickly he runs, he isn’t going to make it. He pushes himself to his body’s limits, and he is just at the lip of the depression. If he jumps -  


Something latches onto him mid-air, whipping Dean back to the hard ground. His skin scrapes against petrified mud and rock, more blood soaking his limbs, and as he looks behind him it is Rowena’s animated corpse which he sees pulling him in. The skin is stripping away from her bones at an alarming rate, burning into black dust as it is sucked into the pit. But still, the Darkness grabs onto him and pulls. He is helpless as he is led over the edge, his broken wings thrashing and his fingers digging into the ground until blood leaps from them. He is being dragged under, and the world above is rapidly disappearing.  


Suddenly the hands let go of him, and he is left alone to watch the ring grow smaller and smaller. His limbs are going numb, and he can no longer feel the gouge in his side. He’s lost too much blood. There’s no coming back from this, and somehow he is okay with that thought; he had accepted long ago that he would die on the job. Everything is bizarrely serene as he lets out a long breath. There is a snap somewhere deep within him, something integral departing from his very core. He stops struggling…  


There is a white light, and the clutch of familiar strong hands as something pulls him up from the Darkness, and it’s _déjà vu_ in every sense of the phrase. Castiel raises him from the crater, his magnificent ebony wings outstretched behind him and sparks flying as his coat flaps in the wind, and he looks like every one of those terrifying gothic paintings where angels are the messengers of death and destruction. With the last modicum of his energy, Dean holds on, even as the world fades to black. The last thing he hears is Castiel’s voice screaming his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about everything. Writers are cruel: it's a fact.


	10. Dust In The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys, the end of the line. Be sure to read the notes at the end of the chapter as well, though, because I will be writing a series of one shot epilogues. 
> 
> Song: ["Dust In the Wind"](https://youtu.be/tH2w6Oxx0kQ?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)  
> Bonus Song: ["Carry On Wayward Son (Lullaby)"](https://youtu.be/YGW-4YtSQdk?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)
> 
> [Here's the playlist which accompanies this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLPKd9YHTpQu6xgD7uftWfrQ94mjUVU3Pr)

This time when Dean opens his eyes, it is not familiar blackness which greets him. Instead, it’s the exact inverse of it, a blinding white cascade of light which should hurt him to look at, but doesn’t. The first thing he feels is relief; he’s no longer falling into that endless pit, the Darkness dragging him down with it. The pain in his abdomen is gone, and his wings are no longer broken -  


That’s when his solace metamorphoses into outright panic. He no longer has his wings, and he can’t feel Michael within him anymore. He certainly isn’t still at the refugee camp, and Castiel and the archangels are nowhere to be seen. Dean turns around in circles, but he can see nothing but the white light, that endless white light.  


And that’s when it hits him: he’s dead.  


Dean’s been dead before, hell, he’s died more times than he can count. But there’s something about this place and the lightness in his chest which tells him that this time it’s for good.  


He isn’t coming back.  


The light begins to fade, but it doesn’t turn dark. Instead it washes away into the bluest sky he’s ever seen, big fluffy white clouds drifting lazily across like canoes on a lake. A warm breeze brushes over his skin, and the ground is covered in vivid green grass. He can hear the ringing of cicadas, and the trees bending gently under the influence of the wind. There’s that distinct smell which is impossible to describe apart from that it means summertime, and the air is hot, but not uncomfortably so. Dean glances around him, soaking it all in, when he realizes that he’s back in the field that he and Sam had almost burnt down on the Fourth of July, 1996. It’s the morning after, and there are still pieces of paper scattered about and tire tracks from the Impala, the remnants of their firework display. Glancing down at one tiny piece in the fossil record of his bizarre life, Dean manages a soft smile.  


When he finally turns around to face the direction of the road, he finds that he is no longer alone. Azrael is standing before him, but not in Claire’s skin anymore. Instead this is Death as Dean first knew him, the black-clad Horseman with the severe face and those ancient eyes. “Hello, Dean,” he says levelly, and the Winchester can find no scorn in his words. When Dean says nothing, Death looks down upon himself, as if realizing for the first time that he is no longer a part of Claire. “Ah, I see.” He glances back up with his black eyes, his lips taut. “I released Claire Novak, and am currently without a vessel. Your human mind is compensating for what it cannot comprehend by translating my form into that which is most familiar to you. In this case, it would appear to be my previous vessel as a Horseman.”  


Dean nods, but really he hadn’t been listening. He’s still too stuck on the fact that he’s in Heaven to make sense of much of anything, his brain doing circles like a rat trapped in a maze. “I’m dead?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.  


Death is unusually patient, and gently replies, “Yes, Dean. You are dead. And this is Heaven.”  


Something catches in Dean’s throat, and even though he knows it isn’t really real, that he no longer has a body, he swallows. “Sammy and Cas, are they dead too?”  


The former Horseman crosses his hands neatly behind his back, his motions delicate like the rustle of papers confronted with a soft breeze. “Your brother and your friends are fine. You would have been too, if it weren’t for the blood loss.” Death sighs, turning on his heel to pace in a circle about Dean. The Winchester watches him silently, but oddly enough he doesn’t feel threatened. In fact, he feels much too calm about all of this.  


“Castiel wanted to deliver you here himself, but I told him to stay behind with the Novak girl; she’ll need comforting. And of course, Castiel can visit you here anytime you like.” His eyes flick to Dean, and then back to the grass. He frowns as he stops in front of a piece of a firecracker, picking up the paper with his gaunt fingers and inspecting it before letting it fall back to the ground again. “Sam, although distraught, ought to be fine, as well as Sheriff Mills. The Croatoan army has been vanquished by the garrisons, and the remaining infected will soon perish without their leader, the spread of the disease ceased. Crowley has stayed behind to help clean up the mess, and will return to Hell soon after. Lucifer has left your brother and returned to Heaven under Gabriel’s watch, and I promise you that he shall never touch dear Sam again.”  


Dean fights for control of his voice. The words sound thick and raw when he finally pushes them past his throat. “What about Michael?”  


The muscles around Death’s mouth flex, morphing into neither a smile nor a frown, but more or less an expression of contemplation. “Michael is the reason that Castiel was able to retrieve your body from the void. As the Darkness was being sealed, and the Mark restored, it latched onto you. In those final moments, Michael dislodged himself from your body so that his grace would be pulled down instead of you. Michael remains sealed in the void with the Darkness, as he will for all of eternity.”  


Dean doesn’t know what to say to this, so wisely he says nothing. He would never admit it, but he had actually grown fond of the archangel’s presence. Michael had never introduced, never tried to make Dean into something else. His presence has been a source of self-assurance which Dean had sorely lacked.  


Michael doesn’t deserve this. And Dean most certainly doesn’t deserve to be in Heaven.  


“Oh, Dean, stop brooding,” scolds Death. “Despite what you may believe, it truly isn’t becoming of you.” He sighs, taking a careful step towards Dean in the field. “You Winchesters have done awful things. You messed with Heaven and Earth and Hell and you’ve screwed over fate countless times. You tried to kill _me_ , a fact I am magnanimous to overlook.” Death pauses and Dean waits, not daring to move a muscle. The archangel continues, and his expression is strangely soft. “But your hearts have always been in the right place.”  


The field begins to dissolve, the grass giving way to the short, tamed shape of a front lawn and an asphalt road. The blue sky dims, and it’s nighttime again, but not at all like the permanent black which had plagued the sky underneath the Darkness. There are stars in this night sky, and a sliver moon casting a gentle pale light over the shimmering features of the surrounding residences.  


Dean’s breath hitches as his eyes fall upon the house in front of him, a wave of emotion overcoming him.  


This is his house. The first and only real home he’d ever had. The one he’d lived in with Sam, and John, and Mary during a time when he was blissfully unaware of the horrors which stalked the Earth.  


In a moment of uncertainty, Dean looks back to Death, who nods to him solemnly. “Go ahead, Winchester. This is the rest you have earned.” Dean swallows, turning away from the archangel in a moment of decisiveness. He approaches the front steps, his shoes making crunching sounds on the short walkway

_Back on Earth, Sam Winchester collects his older brother up in his arms, holding him close as sobs wrack his body._

Dean looks at the faded numbers on the door, the crack of the woodgrain. He runs the palm of his calloused hand over the surface. 

_Castiel watches from the distance the crumpled body of his lover, and he pulls the daughter he has gained closer to him, wiping away her tears. Always from the distance…_

He touches the cool metal of the handle and turns it, pushing the door open to reveal the hallway beyond. 

_Crowley watches the tragedy without being a part of it, although even as the King of Hell he is not untouched. He bows his head in silent mourning of the fallen Winchester, an equal in opposition._

Inside, the corridor is lined with family photos, the memories stunted to a terribly short epoch. There is a wedding picture, and several baby portraits. As Dean makes his way up the stairs as quietly as possible, a photograph of a smiling Mary and John holding their two boys does not go unnoticed. 

_Jody Mills remains crouched on he ground in shock, her heart racing and her bare hands numb from the cold. She stares mutely at the body, feeling responsibility for actions which were not hers._

Dean remembers his way around the house remarkably well. Even though he hasn’t been here in many years, he had made a point long ago to memorize its features. At the top of the stairs he continues down the hall, one glacial step at a time, younger versions of himself and his family staring back at him from the walls like ghosts. He is content just to look, thinking himself to be alone until he hears a sound in the nursery to his right. He makes his way over, footsteps silent as he is careful not to disturb the placidity of the household. He freezes in the doorway, and what he see prompts a hotness in his throat and a stinging in his eyes. Suddenly he can’t breathe. 

This is it, _thinks Sam as he gently lowers Dean’s body to the ground. How many times has he been here in this very position, his brother lifeless in his arms? This time, though, it’s for good. He can feel it in the air, a finality which their lives have lacked up until this very point._

Mary Winchester’s voice drifts across the room to him as she hovers over the crib rocking a small infant, another little boy he knows to be himself asleep on the duvet off to the side. She sings, and the familiar words come back to Dean, all the nights he had heard them only to be forgotten as he drifted off to sleep. _“Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done…”_

_Back in that dilapidated house in the Northwestern United States, Chuck Shurley writes the last page of the Winchester Gospel, filling in what he knows Castiel will find too painful to detail. The final draft had deviated from the initial script long ago, and he had been content to let it do so. No longer is he the architect, but simply the archivist of a new era. But free will comes with a price. This is a lesson that the Winchesters and their allies know too well._

Hot tears stream down Dean’s face, obscuring his vision until all that remains of his mother is a white streak on an otherwise dark canvas. _“Mom?”_ His voice is tiny and cracked, but it’s enough. Mary Winchester sets the infant in his crib and turns to face her son. 

_The humans and the demons and the angels stand together on the frozen ground, all Hunters and all equals. A hush befalls the grieving crowd, and as it does, the smallest of miracles occurs. In the sky above a light shines, orange like the glowing embers of the fires which have only just been extinguished. It begins as nothing more than a sliver, but as the hour draws by the crack widens to reveal the first golden rays of daylight just beyond. Together the warriors witness the first dawn of a new world…_

“Dean?” Mary’s hands are soft, so soft when she raises them to her son’s face, gently wiping away the tears with her thumbs. Dean leans into the touch, and he knows that it isn’t a trick or a hallucination or any one of the innumerable disappointments he had known in his life. He wraps his arms around his mother, feeling her warmth, and he knows that this is real.  


He is home.

 

AND SO THE ROAD ENDS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING, EVERYONE! I am so happy to have had the opportunity to share this with you all, and I am very grateful to those who have read to the end. As I mentioned in the notes at the beginning of the chapter, I plan to write a series of four one-shot epilogues detailing the lives of Team Free Will in their new world. So subscribe to my account and stick around so that you don't miss them. :)
> 
> Thank you again, you have been great. If you liked the fic, be sure to recommend it to your friends and comment, kudos, or bookmark. Until next time, my friends. 
> 
> -Raven


End file.
